IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


Vi 


v^ 


^> 


1.0 


I.I 


Jim 

Hf    1^    12.0 


12.5 
2.2 


11.25 


1.4   11.6 


6" 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  hiatoriquaa 


V 


«l» 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notas  tachniquas  at  bibliographiquaa 


I- 


Tha  Inatituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibiiographically  uniqua. 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  in  tha 
raproduction,  or  which  may  aignificantiy  changa 
tha  uauai  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  balow. 


Coiourad  covara/ 
Couvartura  da  couiaur 


^ 


r~|   Covara  damagad/ 


D 


Couvartura  andommag6a 


Covars  raatorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  raataurte  at/ou  palliculAa 


I     I   Covar  titia  miaaing/ 


D 


D 


i 


D 


La  titra  da  couvartura  manqua 

Coiourad  mapa/ 

Cartaa  gAographiquaa  an  couiaur 

Coiourad  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  couiaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  blaua  ou  noira) 

Coiourad  plataa  and/or  illuatrationa/ 
Planchaa  at/ou  illuatrationa  an  couiaur 


Bound  with  othar  matarial/ 
RaliA  avac  d'autraa  documanta 

Tight  binding  may  cauaa  ahadowa  or  diatortion 
along  intarior  margin/ 

La  reliura  aarr^a  paut  cauaar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
diatortion  la  long  da  la  marga  IntAriaura 

Blank  iaavaa  addad  during  raatoration  may 
appaar  within  tha  taxt.  Whanavar  poaaibla.  thaaa 
hava  baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II  aa  paut  qua  cartainaa  pagaa  blanchaa  aJoutAaa 
lora  d'una  raatauration  apparaiaaant  dana  la  taxta, 
maia,  loraqua  cala  Atait  poaaibla,  caa  pagaa  n'ont 
paa  4t4  filmAaa. 

Additional  commanta:/ 
Commantairaa  aupplAmantairaa: 


L'Inatitut  a  microfilm*  la  maillaur  axamplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  «t«  poaaibla  da  aa  procurer.  Laa  dAtaiia 
da  cat  axamplaira  qui  aont  paut-Atra  uniqiiaa  du 
point  da  vua  bibliographiqua,  qui  pauvanl  modifier 
una  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dana  la  mAthoda  normala  de  filmage 
aont  indiquia  ci-deaaoua. 

□   Coiourad  pagaa/ 
Pagaa  da  couleur 


D 
D 
D 
D 


Pagaa  damaged/ 
Pagea  endommagtea 

Pagaa  raatorad  and/or  laminated/ 
Pagea  reataurAea  at/ou  palliculAea 

Pagaa  diacolourad,  atainad  or  foxed/ 
Pagea  dAcolortea,  tachatAea  ou  piqutea 

Pagea  detached/ 
Pagea  d6tach6as 


|~n    Showthrough/ 


D 
D 


Tranaparence 

Quality  of  prir 

QualitA  inAgala  de  I'lmpreaaion 

Includea  aupplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  materiel  auppi^mantaira 


I      I   Quality  of  print  variea/ 

r~n   Includea  aupplementary  material/ 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  diaponibia 

Pagea  wholly  or  partially  obacured  by  errata 
aiipa,  tiaauea,  etc.,  have  been  ref limed  to 
enaure  the  beat  poaaibla  image/ 
Lea  pagea  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obacurciaa  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  una  pelure. 
etc.,  ont  M  fiimtlea  A  nouveau  da  fagon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  poaaibla. 


This  Item  la  filmed  at  tha  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ca  document  eat  film*  au  taux  d9  reduction  indiqui  ci-deaaoua. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


2SX 


30X 


n 


12X 


16X 


2DX 


a«x 


28X 


32X 


tails 

du 
odifiar 

une 
mage 


IS 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^»>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  l'exemplaire  film6.  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimte  sont  filmds  en  commengant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiim^s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  I'angle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m6thode. 


r  arrata 
d  to 

It 

iB  peiure, 

pon  A 


13 


32X 


I 


!     » 

i 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

■V.- 


"THB  UVmO  IMAQB  OP  HBR  LOtT  MARIANNBI "-(>««•  «•) 


I    ■Ji 


Lot  Leslie's  Folks 


And  their  queer  Adventures  among 
the  French  and  Indians. 

A.  D.  1755-1 7^3- 


BY/' 

Eleanor  C.  Donnelly. 


|"-(»N!««-) 


PHILADELPHIA : 

H.  L.    KILNER   &   Co., 

PUBLISHERS. 


TWO  COPIES  HECEIVED. 

Library  of  CORgraiii 
Offic*  of  tbt 

D£G121899 

Rvglitir  of  Copyrlgbtft 


-0^: 
^-^ 


V 


48566 

OOPTBUBT,  IW9,  BT  H.  L.  KtUISB  A  Ca 


MOONDOOP*! 


V 


"  I 


THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

BY   ITS  AUTHOR 
TO  HER  GOOD  FRIENDS 

MR.  AND  MRS.  CHARLES  J.  O'MALLEY, 
OF  Louisville,  Kentucky, 

AS  A  TRIBUTE  OF  HER  ESTEEM  FOR 

THAT  GIFTED  COUPLE, 

WHO,  (LIKE  THE  BROWNINGS),  ARE  IDEALLY  UNITED  IN  THEIR  UT- 

ERARY  LABORS,  AS  IN  THEIR  UFE  OF  WEDDED  LOVE. 


msmmf^Bmmie'^rmmm^mmF  mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmBmmmmmmmmmmmmmimBmmmmmmmmmmmmmmiBKmmmimmmmmmm 


■■■■■P^^aMHHi 


CBAP. 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

yni. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI, 


CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

The  Surprise  at  the  Fort 7 

Timothy  and  Willv  are  Adopted '9 

Love  Finds  A  Way,  AND— A  Mother 3P 

AN  Indian  Princess  AND  Her  Handmaidens     .   .  44 

The  Yankee  Woman's  Message 53 

Marianne  St.  Ange 

The  Attack  on  the  Bu.  khouse 75 

What  Happened  AT  Threk  Rivers 9« 

The  Mission  OP  THE  Assumption "° 

Strangers  from  the  Forest "7 

The  Face  at  the  Window '45 

A  Fatal  Game  of  Ball 3 

In   the   shadow   of    Death-An    Unexpected  ^ 

Meeting. •   •  •      ,j\U. 

The  Secret  of  the  Scales,  and  What  Came  of  It  .  190 

A  Discovery  and  a  Dilemma 

In  the  Double  House  at  Philadelphu »*i 


r- 


I 


'ijt 


Lot  Leslie's  Folks. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  SURPRISE  AT  THE  PORT. 

The  place  where  this  strange  old  story  had  its 
beginning  was  Swan  Island,  on  the  coast  of 
Maine,  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  the  Kennebec 
river. 

There,  in  the  year  1755,  stood  a  good-sized 
fort,  well-manned  with  English  soldiers,  to  pro- 
tect the  people  against  the  Indians. 

The  building  was  of  stout  wood ;  and  around 
it,  stretched,  far  and  wide,  a  close  fence  of  high, 
strong  stakes  or  palisades,  with  a  big  gate  in  the 
middle,  heavily  barred  and  bolted. 

One  by  one,  the  island-houses  had  been  builded 
within  this  fence,  and  as  near  as  might  be,  to  the 
fort. 

The  nighest  to  it  was  the  cabin  of  old  Captain 
James  Wilson,  who  had  fought  at  the  taking  of 
Cape  Breton,  ten  years  before. 

One  of  his  daughters  had  married  a  farmer 
from  the  mainland,  named  Lot  Leslie;  but,  as 


f 


8 


LOT  LESLIE^S  FOLKS. 


Grandmother  Wilson  was  wasting  away  in  dys- 
pepsia, and  the  captain's  sight  beginning  to  fail, 
Lot  Leslie  and  his  folks  had  come  to  live  at  the 
homestead  on  Swan  Island:  and  took  care  of 
things  for  the  old  people. 

There  were  four  Leslie  children,  Faith  and 
Hope,  the  two  elder  girls,  aged,  the  one,  twelve, 
and  the  other,  nine  years  ;  Wilson,  the  only  boy, 
just  turned  eight ;  and  little  Love,  the  bal.y  of 
three  summers. 

All  were  nice,  healthy,  merry  children,  with 
the  bloom  and  freshness  of  the  salt  winds  in 
their  faces.  The  boy  and  the  baby-girl  resem- 
bled their  good-looking  mother.  Wilson  gave 
promise  of  being,  some  day,  a  handsome  fellow ; 
but  little  Love  was  already  a  real  beauty,  and 
the  pet  of  the  household. 

She  was  very  plump,  and  of  small  bones.  Her 
eyes  were  large,  black  and  soft  as  velvet,  with 
long,  dark,  fringy  lashes.  Her  dimpled  cheeks 
were  like  roses  in  the  milk  of  her  snowy  skin ; 
and  her  head  was  covered  with  a  silken  mass  of 
curls  of  that  deep,  rich  red,  sometimes  seen  in  old 
pictures  by  Titian. 

This  union  of  bluck  eyes  with  red  hair  and 
a  dazzling  complexion  was  the  special  charm  of 
Mistress  Lot  Leslie.  She  was,  also,  what  Joe 
Gargery  has  called,  "  a  fine  figger  of  a  woman" ; 
and  it  was  always  a  marvel  to  the  gossips  of 


% 


vay  in  dys- 

ling  to  fail, 

live  at  the 

ok  care  of 

Faith  and 
>ne,  twelve, 
e  only  boy, 
he  bal.y  of  • 

ildren,  with 
t  winds  in 
-girl  resem- 
V^ilson  gave 
Drae  fellow ; 
beauty,  and 

x>nes.  Her 
velvet,  with 
pled  cheeks 
snowy  skin ; 
[ken  mass  of 
3  seen  in  old 

ed  hair  and 
ial  charm  of 
o,  what  Joe 
\  a  woman  " ; 
e  gossips  of 


THE  SURPRISE  AT  THE  FORT.  » 

Swan  Island  how  so  handsome  a  girl  as  Hope 
Wilson  could  have  "  throw'd  herself  away,"  as 
they  termed  it,  "on  sich  a  humly,  no  account, 
insignif'cant  creetur  as  Lot  Leslie." 

But  love,  as  every'jody  ought  to  know,  is 
blind ;  and  Mistress  Lot  dearly  loved  her  plain 
little  husband,  finding  in  him  many  charming 
qualities  which  her  neighbors  failed  to  see. 

She  valued  highly  his  dog-like  devotedness  to 
herself  and  children;  and  she  prized  above  aU, 
his  manly  courage.  For,  small  and  ugly  as  he 
was,  the  little  man  was  as  brave  as  a  lion. 

Although  they  foresaw  it  not,  pressing  need 
there  was  soon  to  be  for  aU  of  Lot's  grit  and  gal- 
lantry. . 

In  the  midsummer  of  1755,  some  runners  from 
the  fort  brought  back  word  that  Indians  had 
been  seen  skulking  around  the  beach,  many  of 
them  painted  black. 

Now,  in  .those  days,  when  Indians  pamted 
themselves  black,  by  means  of  charcoal  and 
grease,  the  islanders  knew  it  to  be  a  sure  sign  of 

war. 

So,  the  commander  of  the  fort  gave  orders  to 
the  soldiers  to  look  well  their  guns ;  and  enjoined 
upon  all  within  the  enclosure,  to  see  to  it  that  no 
gate  or  door  be  left  open  to  the  prowling  sav- 
ages. 

In  spite  of^  these  strict  orders,  however,  one 


10 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


beautiful  July  morning,  a  little  after  daybreak, 
two  disobedient  boys,  sons  of  a  good-for-nothing 
fisherman,  sneaked  out  of  the  garrison,  to  go 
black-berrying,  and  left  the  gate  open  behind 
them. 

The  watchful  Indians  were  close  at  hand,  lying- 
flat  upon  their  faces.  They  sprang  upon  the 
boys,  like  crouching  panthers,  and  killed  them  so 
quickly  with  their  hatchets,  that  the  hapless  lit- 
tle fellows  had  not  time  even  to  cry  aloud. 

In  the  space  of  ten  minutes,  nearly  a  hundred 
Indians  had  crept  silently  through  the  gate,  and 
swarmed  into  the  enclosure. 

They  were  dreadful  to  behold — those  noiseless, 
creeping  savages,  with  their  fluttering  scalp- 
locks,  their  almost  naked,  dark  bodies,  and  their 
brown  faces,  either  fierce  or  cunning,  streaked  up 
and  down  with  black,  red,  yellow,  or  green  paint. 
Each  carried  a  gun  or  hatchet ;  and  long,  sharp 
knives  glittered  in  their  belts. 

Just  as  the  sun  came  up,  like  a  ball  of  fire,  out 
of  the  sea,  the  Indians  burst  upon  the  fort  with  a 
hideous  yell  that  wakened  all  the  islund-sleepers. 
Then,  might  be  seen  the  poor  commander  in  his 
night-shirt,  rallying  his  frightened  forces,  and 
detailing  the  men  who  were  to  climb  up  to  the 
lookout  on  the  roof,  where  the  fire-arrows  were 
already  beginning  to  fall. 
The  shingles  had  been  covered,  a  few  days  be- 


'j. 


THE  SURPRISE  AT  THE  FORT. 


11 


daybreak, 
)r-nothing 
on,  to  go 
m  behind 

land,  lying 
upon  the 
}d  them  so 
hapless  lit- 
oud. 

a  hundred 
)  gate,  and 

e  noiseless, 
ing  scalp- 
I,  ar.d  their 
itreaked  up 
;reen  paint, 
long,  sharp 

of  fire,  out 
fort  with  a 
nd-sleepers. 
nder  in  his 
forces,  and 
>  up  to  the 
rrows  were 

}W  days  be- 


fore, with  damp  turf;  but,  alas!  the  hot  July 
sun  had  baked  it  hard  and  dry,  and  through  its 
cracks,  the  sparks  found  space  to  land. 

They  had  scarcely  smelled  the  smoke  of  the 
burning  roof,  before  the  noise  of  hatchets  against 
the  weakest  door  of  the  fort  gave  the  garrison  to 
know  that  their  time  was  short. 

A  crash,  a  mad  rush  inwards  of  dark,  shrieking 
demons— and  the  enemy  was  on  them,  face  to 
face! 
The  awful  end  had  come. 
The  soldiers  fought  like  brave  men ;  but,  thus 
surprised  and  only  half-awake,  what  could  a  few 
white  men  do  against  so  many  howling,  blood- 
thirsty savages? 
The  fort  soon  became  a  scene  of  horror. 
The  dead  and  the  dying  lay  about  on  all  sides ; 
but,  without  stopping  to  scalp  their  victims,  the 
Indians  hurried  to  old  Wilson's  cabin,  to  settle  a 
long-standing  grudge  against  the  captain. 

The  old  man  and  his  wife,  coming  out  to  meet 
them  with  bribes,  pleaded  in  vain  for  mercy. 

"  Thus  do  we  settle  our  score !  "  cried  the  In- 
dians, in  their  own  tongue,  striking  at  them  with 
knives  dripping  with  blood ;  and  the  old  couple, 
gashed  and  bleeding,  their  grey  hair  dabbled  in 
gore,  were  left,  stretched  lifeless,  across  their  own 
doorsill. 
The  savagesi   leaped  over  their  bodies,  and 


I 


r» 


12 


LOT  Leslie's  tolks. 


rushed  indoors,  shouting  and  gibbering  like  ma- 
niacs. 

At  the  head  of  the  narrow  staircase,  Lot 
Leslie  met  the  Indians  with  his  rifle,  and  fired 

upon  them. 

He  knew  that  Mistress  Leslie  and  her  four  chil- 
dren, with  Prudence  SkiUet,  the  hired  woman, 
were  all  crying,  and  clinging  to  each  other  over 
in  the  little  front  bedroom. 

His  young  man-of-all-work,  Timothy  Grind- 
stone, armed  with  an  axe,  stood  bravely  at 
Leslie's  side,  and,  with  him,  tried  to  make  fight 
against  the  redskins.  But  they  prevailed  nothing. 
Strange  to  say,  the  savages  did  not  try  to  kill 
the  two  men  who  were  wholly  in  their  power ; 
but,  dragging  out  the  women  and  children  from 
the  bedroom,  they  bound  fast  the  party  of 
seven,  and  hurried  them  down  to  the  beaoh. 

There,  they  left  them,  under  guard  of  an  Indian 
or  two.  Then,  tearing  back  to  the  fort,  they 
first  ransacked  the  premises,  and  all  the  near-by 
houses,  destroying  their  furniture:  scalped  the 
wounded,  mutilated  the  dead,  and  ended  by  car- 
rying oflf  all  the  money  and  valuables  they  could 
lay  hands  on. 

Lastly,  they  set  fire  to  Captain  Wilson's  cabin ; 
and,  in  the  red  light  of  the  blazing  buildings, 
went  dancing  and  shrieking,  like  so  many  de- 
mons, back  to  their  captives  on  the  beach. 


THE  SURPRISE  AT  THE  FORT. 


13 


ig  like  ma* 

ircase,  Lot 
,  and  fired 

jr  four  chil- 
•ed  woman, 
I  other  over 

thy   Grind- 
bravely  at 
make  fight 
led  nothing. 
•t  try  to  kill 
leir  power ; 
lildren  from 
le  party  of 
)  beach, 
of  an  Indian 
le  fort,  they 
[  the  near-by 
scalped  the 
nded  by  car- 
is  they  could 

ilson's  cabin ; 
ig  buildings, 
BO  many  de- 
beach. 


Alas!  with  what  fear  and  fright  did  those 
poor  souls  behold  the  blood-stained  wretches 
rushing  down  upon  them ! 

They  fully  expected  to  be  killed  and  scalped 
upon  tiie  spot ;  and,  although  they  had  never  in 
their  lives  been  members  of  uny  church— all,  (ex- 
cept, perhaps,  the  baby),  prayed  fervently  to  God 
for  help. 

Little  did  they  dream,  in  that  hour  of  darkest 
trial,  how  wonderfully,  how  blessedly,  their  good 
Father  in  heaven  would,  one  day,  answer  their 
prayer!  If  they  could  have  foreseen  it,  they 
might  have  cried  out,  then  and  there,  in  the 
words  of  our  Lord  to  Zaccheus :  "  This  day  is 
salvation  come  to  this  house !" 

Blinded  now,  however,  to  all  the  heavenly 

blessings  of  the  future,  poor  Mistress  Leslie  sat 

•  upon  a  rock  on  the  sands— her  arms  bound  with 

rordsj  and  the  big  tears  running  down  her  comely 

face. 

She  still  seemed  to  see  her  murdered  father 
and  mother,  coveretl  with  wounds  and  blood,  ly- 
ing stark  and  cold,  across  the  dooreill  of  the  dear 
old  home.  She  had  been  forced  to  step  upon  her 
mother's  breast,  as  the  savages  dragged  her  over 
the  threshold. 

She  felt  now  as  if  her  heart  would  burst,  when 
her  baby,  her  little  Love,  crept  to  her  feet,  and 
laid  her  pretty  head  upon  her  lap.    She  could 


r" 


14 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


not  even  clasp  the  darling  to  her  bosom,  because 
of  her  pinioned  arms. 

Little  Wilson  pressed  close  to  his  father's  side ; 
while  Faith  and  Hope,  white  as  death,  and  half- 
fainting  from  fright,  huddled  against  Prudence 
and  Timothy. 

Lot  Leslie  made  use  of  a  few  moments  of  quiet, 
before  the  main  body  of  Indians  returned  from 
the  burning  fort,  to  speak  some  words  of  warn- 
ing to  his  wife  and  family. 

He  had  lived  for  many  years  near  the  Indian 
settlements,  and  he  knew  a  good  deal  about  the 
ways  and  dispositions  of  the  savages. 

^*  No  matter  what  you  see,"  he  now  said  to  the 
dear,  helpless  ones  around  him;  "no  matter 
what  the  Indians  may  do  to  you  to-day,  or  at  any 
other  time,  keep  very  still — bear  it  all  in  silence  ! 
Cry  out,  or  make  a  fuss,  and  the  redskins'U  either 
kill  you  at  once,  or  put  you  to  a  slow  torture." 

"O  my  baby!  my  little  Love!"  whispered 
Mistress  Leslie  with  a  great  sob :  "  who  can  keep 
you  from  crying  out?  little,  tender  thing  that 
you  are  1 " 

"  The  Lord's  hand  is  over  the  innocent,  ma'am," 
said  Prudence  Skillet,  whose  early  bringing-up 
had  been  among  the  Puritans,  and  who  was  fond 
of  quoting  Scripture.  "  Remember,  David  said 
in  the  Psalms :  '  He  made  them  also  to  be  pitied 
of  all  those  that  carried  them  away  captive.* " 


KS. 

r  bosom,  because 

his  father's  side ; 
I  death,  and  half- 
gainst  Pradence 

loments  of  quiet, 
IS  returned  from 
e  words  of  warn- 

I  near  the  Indian 
>d  deal  about  the 
ages. 

B  now  said  to  the 
m;  "no  matter 
I  to-day,  or  at  any 
it  all  in  silence/ 
redskins'll  either 
.  slow  torture." 
)vel"  whispered 
:  **  who  can  keep 
snder  thing  that 

nnocent,  ma'am," 
arly  bringing-up 
nd  who  was  fond 
nber,  David  said 
also  to  be  pitied 
vay  captive.' " 


THE  SURPRISE  AT  THE  FORT. 


16 


"  Prudence,  old  girl,"  growled  the  man  Timo- 
thy :  'you'll  not  find  any  pity  among  these  red- 
skinned  imps  of  Satan.  You  may  make  up  your 
mind  to  that.  Hark  to  them  1  Here  they  come, 
(the  Lord  be  merciful  to  us  1)  howling  and  leaping 
like  furies  out  of  the  hot  place  1 " 

It  was  a  horrid  sight,  indeed,  on  a  blessed  sum- 
mer morning,  when  the  sea  was  like  a  quiet  lake, 
and  all  in  nature  was  so  beautiful,  peaceful  and 
sunny— that  great  throng  of  hideous  savages 
dancing  along  the  sands,  shrieking,  and  waving 
over  their  heads  their  bloody  hatchets. 

They  ran  straight  to  the  poor  prisoners,  and 
shook  their  knives  and  tomahawks  in  their  faces ; 
but,  seeing  that  they  all  sat  or  stood,  white  and 
still  as  statues  of  stone,  (even  little  Love  hiding 
her  eyes  on  her  mother's  knee,  without  a  sound) 
they  did  them,  at  that  time,  no  further  harm. 

The  chief  of  the  band,  Haukimah,  gave  some 
orders  to  one  or  two  of  the  savages.  These  hur- 
ried at  once  to  a  little  cove  on  the  east  coast  of 
the  island. 

They  were  lost  to  sight  for  a  few  moments ; 
and  when  next  they  were  seen,  it  was  in  one  of 
their  Indian  canoes,  now  being  rowed  along  the 
shore  from  the  spot  where,  all  the  past  night, 
they  had  been  in  hiding. 

There  were  eight  or  ten  of  these  boats,  great 
and  small.    T^iey  were  rowed  by  the  Indian 


-Tiimm-imwKff'^mt^- 


16 


LOT   LESLIE'S   FOLK  8. 


i  , 


squaws  in  sacks  of  coarse,  gaudy  calico — their 
bare  arms,  strong  and  brown,  seeming  well  used 
to  the  oars. 

Again,  Haukiniah  gave  his  orders. 

Timothy  Grindstone  and  little  Wilson  Leslie 
were  seized  by  four  of  the  Indians,  and  dragged 
into  one  of  the  smaller  canoes,  which  immedi- 
ately put  off  from  the  shore. 

Next,  the  maid  Prudence,  with  the  little  girls, 
Faith  and  Hope,  were  stowed  among  a  crowd  of 
savages  in  a  big  canoe ;  and,  after  the  other  boats 
had  all  been  filled  up  with  Indians,  some  of  them 
guarding  Lot  and  his  wife  in  the  chief's  canoe — 
an  old  squaw  was  ordered  out  from  the  last  boat. 
Haukimah  beckoned  her  to  him  with  his  hatchet, 
calling  her  JV  ^-o-kmn,  or  Grandmother. 

She  was  ugly  and  dark.  Her  face  was  a  net- 
work of  wrinkles,  and  the  loose  flesh  hung  in  a 
double  dewlap  under  her  chin.  Her  cotton  sack 
an  petticoat  were  very  dirty;  but  her  expres- 
si(ni  was  mild  and  peaceful. 

" ^'-mjcwA-mA / "  grunted  the  chief;  and  Lot 
Leslie  had  just  remembered  that  the  word  was 
Indian  for  "  baby  " — when  Haukimah  caught  up 
little  Love  from  the  sands  (where  she  had  been 
left  to  jreep  about  alone),  and  tossed  her  into 
N'-o-kum's  withered  arms. 

Another  word  was  spoken  by  the  chief  to  the 
old   crone.    It  was  "Attmoom,'"    but  it  was 


'\ 


THE  SURPRISE   AT  THE  FORT. 


17 


[ico — their 
well  used 


son  Leslie 
d  dragged 
i  immedi- 

Little  girls, 
I  crowd  of 
>ther  boats 
ae  of  them 
's  canoe — 
i  last  boat, 
is  hatchet, 

was  a  net- 

huDg  in  a 

otton  sack 

ler  expres- 

;  and  Lot 
word  was 
caught  up 
)  had  been 
d  her  into 

bief  to  the 
at  it  was 


many  a  long  and  weary  day  before  the  captives 
of  Swan  Island  came  to  understand  what  "  Atta- 
worn  "  meant  in  English. 

Little  Love  was  a  fearless,  sociable  child. 
Added  to  which,  sLo  was  now  heavy  with  sleep, 
having  been  roused  so  early  from  her  crib,  that 
dreadful  day.  So,  when  N'-o-kum  clasped  her 
closely  in  her  arms,  and  leaped  with  her  into  the 
last  canoe  that  quitted  the  island,  she  cuddled 
down  in  the  old  woman's  embrace,  and  slept 
quietly  against  her  dirty  bosom. 

Mistress  Leslie,  with  her  husband,  in  the  fore- 
most boat,  was  being  carried  rapidly  away  from 
all  they  loved  on  earth. 

The  lurid  glow  of  their  blazing  home  was  red- 
dening the  sky;  and,  looking  back,  poor  Mrs. 
Lot  saw,  with  anguish,  her  precious  baby  in  the 
arms  of  that  filthy  savage. 

How  bright,  how  dear  to  her,  was  the  little 
head  that  slept  upon  that  ugly  pillow  1 

A  line  from  the  Bible,  (which  she  had  not  read 
for  years),  came  back  to  her  mind. 

It  was  about  some  other  Mother,  some  great 
Woman  of  Israel,  but  she  could  not  remember 

whom.  ,  «    •       » 

"—-And  thine  <mn  soul  a  aword  ahaU  pterce 

—it  had  read.  ^ 

She  gave  a  faint  cry  of  agony ;  and  instantly, 
an  Indian  struck  her  sharply  across  the  mouth. 


^^miimimimimmm 


18 


LOT  LESLIES   FOLKS. 


■  Leaning  against  her  unhappy  husband's  shoul- 
der, the  poor  inother  tainted  in  silence.  A  swoon 
so  like  death,  that  Lot  shuddered  as  he  felt  her 
cold,  clammy  cheek  against  his  OAvn. 

The  sword  of  mortal  anguish  had  pierced  her 
soul. 


^  ■ 


mmmim 


mmmmimmm 


anil's  shoul- 
3.  A  swoon 
;  he  felt  her 

pierced  her 


CHAPTER  11. 

TIMOTHY    AND   WILLY   ARE  ADOPTED. 


BY  sea  and  by  land,  through  thick  woods  and 
over  rough  mountains,  Timothy  Grindstone  and 
little  Wilson  Leslie  were  hurried  by  their  Indian 
masters,  down    to  the  English  settlements  in 

Pennsylvania.  ,    , .    . ,     i 

It  wa«  ji.8t  after  General  Braddock's  bloody 
defeat  at  Fort  du  Quesne.  The  savages  mad 
with  victory,  were  rushing  from  one  farm  to  an^ 
other,  robbing  and  murdering  the  settlers  with 
the  fury  of  fiends. 

Manv  of  these,  whom  Timothy  and  Wi  son  met 
upon  the  road,  were  dressed  in  the  uniforms  of 
the  British  otticers,  slaughtered  by  them  and 
stripped    upon    the    field.     Scarlet   coats   and 
breLhes,   iLced    hats,  sashes,  and    half-moonj 
(such  a*  the  British  then  wore)  made  these  red 
rascals  look  to  be  such  scarecrows-the  military 
^  becoming  them  far  less  than  their  native 
blankets  and  plumes-that  Grindstone  and  the 
boy  were  often  moved  to  laugh,  sad  and  fearful 
enough,  though  they  were,  at  heart. 

The  iews  of  Braddock's  defeat,  communicated 
by  these  grotesque  stragglers,  must  have  changed 


L 


^ 


«M 


'^mfU 


80 


LOT  lehlif/r  folks. 


the  plans  of  the  Swan  Island  savages;  for,  in- 
stead of  pushing  straight  on  to  Philadelphia, 
they  soon  turned  \x\ton  their  tracks  and,  with 
their  captives,  made  for  tlie  north  again. 

Ijaunching  their  canuu  ujion  the  Alleghany 
river,  they  rowed  Timothy  and  Wilson  up  to  an 
Indian  town  on  the  south  bank  of  the  stream, 
some  forty  miles  above  Fort  du  Quesne. 

When  they  landed  at  this  i>oint,  the  captives 
were  astonished  to  see  great  numbers  of  strange 
Indians  running  toward  them,  whooping,  and 
wildly  waving  their  arms. 

These  were  stripped  naked,  except  for  a  cloth 
al)out  their  loins,  and  were  painted  in  a  horrid 
fashion  in  staring  colors  of  brightest  red,  blue, 
yellow,  and  brown. 

They  came  on  in  irregular  swarms,  like  great, 
gaudy  butterflies,  until  they  drew  closer  to  Grind- 
stone and  the  boy.  Then,  they  formed  them- 
selves into  two  long  lines,  facing  each  other, 
about  a  couple  of  yards  apart. 

While  Timothy  was  regarding  this  movement 
with  some  concern,  an  Indian  who  spoke  a  little 
English,  told  him  that  he  and  the  boy  were  ex- 
pected to  run  between  these  ranks  to  the  village 
beyond. 

He  further  said  that  the  strange  Indians  would 
flog  them  all  the  way ;  and  that  the  quicker  they 
ran,  the  better,  as  they  would  cease  to  strike 


TIMOTHY    ANU   WILLY    ARK   Al»OI'Ti;i>. 


21 


»;  for,  in- 
[liladelphia, 

and,  with 
in. 

Alleghany 
•n  up  to  an 
the  stream, 

10. 

he  captives 

of  strange 

oping,  and 

for  a  cloth 
in  a  horrid 
It  red,  blue, 

I  like  great, 
Jr  to  Grind- 
med  them- 
>ach  other, 

movement 
oke  a  little 
y  were  ex- 
the  village 

ians  would 

icker  they 

to  strike 


thutn  whenever  they  reached  the  other  end  of 
the  line. 

Now,  (irindstono  was  a  well-built  man  of 
twonty-Mvc,  or  tliorealK)utH, — wiry  and  muscular. 
He  wuH  an  expert  at  high  jumping  and  foot-rac- 
ing; and  had  taught  little  Wilson  many  wonder- 
ful tricks  at  the  same.  The  boy  had  been  trained 
by  him  to  clear  with  ease  the  high  pickets  of  the 
fort  at  Swan  Island,  to  the  admiration  of  soldiers 
and  ollicers  alike,  and  could  leap  to  extraordinary 
heights,  like  a  young  kangaroo. 

"Willy!"  wliispered  Timothy,  at  that  critical 
moment :  "  we've  got  to  run  for  our  lives.  Make 
the  best  of  your  logs,  my  lad,  and  astonish  the 
redskins ! " 

And  with  that,  a  couple  of  savages  struck  them 
a  rousing  blow  in  the  back,  and  away  down  the 
ranks,  they  flew — every  sannup  and  squaw  in  the 
double  file  shrieking  and  cracking  at  them,  as 
they  ran.  But,  never  were  there  seen  in  those 
parts  such  a  pair  of  white  runners  as  Timothy 
and  little  Will. 

They  sped  between  the  blows  of  their  tor- 
mentors, like  creatures  of  the  wind.  Now,  dodg- 
ing sticks,  knives,  and  hatchets;  again,  leaping 
directly  over  the  outstretched  arm  of  some 
screaming  squaw,  Timothy  led  the  way,  and  lit- 
tle Willy  bravely  followed. 

The    boy  was  as  plucky  as  the  man.    His 


*f . 


r' 


22 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


pretty  head  was  lifted,  his  fine  eyes  shone  like 
stars. 

Once,  toward  the  end  of  the  dreadful  race. 
Grindstone  looking  back  wildly  over  his  shoul- 
der, (blood  and  sweat  streaming  down  his 
cheeks),  saw  that  his  little  mate  was  sorely  beset 
by  the  women  and  children  of  the  tribe. 

They,  whose  hearts  should  have  been  gentler 
and  more  merciful  than  the  men's,  were  cruel 
and  fierce  as  wolves. 

They  had  left  the  tracks  of  their  fists  and 
finger-nails  upon  Willy's  bonny  little  face. 

It  was  bruised  and  bleeding — and  the  poor 
child,  not  much  more  than  a  baby ! 

"  Jump  for  it,  my  boy  1 "  panted  Timothy  as  he 
ran,  sweating  at  every  pore:  "Give  the  big 
jump  r  taught  you  on  the  island.  It's  only  a  few 
steps  further ;  jump  for  my  back,  and  I'll  carry 
you  safe  to  the  end  1 " 

And  behold !  to  the  surprise  and  delight  of  tue 
savages,  the  plucky  little  fellow,  drawing  back  a 
pace  or  two,  made  a  sudden  dart  forward,  and 
leaping  into  the  air,  cleared  the  space  between 
him  and  his  friend,  and  landed  safely  astride  of 
Timothy's  stout  shoulders. 

Just  as  he  clasped  him  tightly  about  the  neck, 
half-crying,  half-laughing  with  the  strain.  Grind- 
stone reached  the  first  of  the  wigwams  that 
marked  the  outskirts  of  the  Indian  settlement. 


TIMOTHY   AND  WILLY    AKE  ADOPTED. 


23 


shone  like 

adful  race, 

|r  his  shoul- 

down    his 

sorely  beset 

be. 

teen  gentler 

were  cruel 

ir  fists  and 

face. 

d  the  poor 

nothy  as  he 
ve  the  big 
3  only  a  few 
id  I'll  carry 

flight  of  tue 
ving  back  a 
>rvrard,  and 
ce  between 
y  astride  of 

it  the  neck, 
•ain.  Grind- 
warns  that 
ttlement. 


The  savages  burst  into  a  great  cheer. 
The  race  was  over.    The  trial  was  past. 
Timothy  and  the  boy,  breathless  and  exhausted 
as  they  were,  had  won  the  admiration  and  re- 
spect of  the  whole  tribe.    The  very  savages, 
who,  just  liefore,   had  joined  in  flogging  and 
stoning  the  captives,  now  escorted  them  with 
every  sign  of  good-will  to  the  tent  of  their  chief. 
Here,  they  were  feasted  upon  dried  deer's  meat, 
and  on  boiled  hominy,  freely  mixed  with  bear's 
oil  and  sugar.  . 

As  they  were  very  hungry,  they  ate  heartily 
of  the  food ;  and,  seeing  that  the  race  and  the 
rough  treatment  they  had  suffered  appeared  to 
have  left  them  rather  weak  and  white,  the  chief 
forced  them  to  drink  of  a  cordial  made  of  honey, 
rum  and  water,  which  warmed  them  through 
and  through,  and  filled  them  with  new  life. 

They  were,  afterward,  given  places  of  honor  in 
the  centre  of  the  camp.  For,  there  was  an  old 
tradition  in  that  tribe  as  to  the  coming  of  a  white 
male  child,  who  would  be  wonderfully  gifted  in 
every  way,  and  who  would,  one  day,  lead  their 
warriors  on  to  a  universal  victory  over  their 

enemies. 

Willy  knew  nothing  of  this  old  legend;  and 
Timothy  was  equally  ignorant  of  it ;  but  sitting 
there  together,  they  were  moved  to  give  humble 
thanks  to  God  for  His  mercy  in  keeping  them 


S4 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


from  death,  and  spoke  softly  to  each  other  of  the 
dear  lost  ones  they  might  never  hope  to  see  again 
on  earth. 

Meanwhile,  the  Indians,  unusually  elated  by 
the  i)ossession  of  the  boy,  were  going  about  from 
tent  to  tent,  eating,  smoking,  or  painting  them- 
selves. 

Some  beat  a  kind  of  drum,  and  sang  hideously. 
Others  played  a  flute,  made  of  hollow  cane :  or 
twanged  the  Jew's  harp. 

Here  and  there,  groujw  of  the  younger  men, 
some  of  the  dandies  of  the  tribe,  sat  upon  the 
ground,  playing  a  gambling  game,  of  the  nature 
of  dice. 

A  number  of  plum-stones  were  thrown  into  a 
small  wooden  bowl.  One  side  of  each  stone  was 
black,  the  other,  white.  The  players  shook  the 
bowl,  in  turn,  crying  out:  "//ite  hits,  hits! 
Honesy^  honesy!  Rago,  rago!^'' — which  Timo- 
thy and  his  little  friend  discovered,  after  while, 
meant  that  the  gamblers  were  calling  in  their 
Indian  lingo,  for  black  or  white,  or  the  color 
they  wished  to  bet  upon.  The  game  always 
ended  by  turning  the  bowl  upside  down,  and 
counting  the  "  blacks "  and  "  whites,"  as  they 
chanced  to  fall. 

As  the  result  of  the  game,  bunches  of  gaudy 
plumes,  knives,  bracelets,  strings  of  wampum,  and 
other  glittering  finery,  changed  hands  rapidly — 


TIMOTHY   AND  WILLY    ARE   ADOPTED. 


26 


)ther  of  the 
to  see  again 

•  elated  by 
about  from 
iting  them- 

j  hideously. 
>w  cane :  or 

unger  men, 
It  upon  the 
'  the  nature 

rown  into  a 
h  stone  was 
s  shook  the 
hits,  hits  / 
hich  Timo- 
ttfter  while, 
ng  in  their 
r  the  color 
me  always 
down,  and 
8,"  as  they 

es  of  gaudy 
impum,and 
is  rapidly — 


but  not  without  considerable  bickering  and  quar- 
relling. 

In  consideration  of  their  courage  and  skill  m 
the  race,  (and  out  of  respect  to  the  boy's  supposed 
dignity),  Timothy  and  Wilson  slept  that  night  in 
the  tent  of  the  chief,  upon  a  bed  of  deer-skins. 

The  next  day,  jnst  after  sunrise,  a  number  of 
the  Indians  led  them  out  again  to  the  centre  of 

the  camp. 

They  formed  a  circle  round  the  captives ;  and 
two  of  them  began  to  pull  the  hair  out  of  the 
heads  of  Grindstone  and  the  boy.  This,  they 
did,  by  smearing  their  fingers  with  ashes,  which 
a  couple  of  squaws  held  for  them  upon  pieces  of 

bark. 

Thus,  getting  a  firmer  hold,  they  plucked  the 
poor  captives  of  their  hair,  as  if  they  had  been 
plucking  a  pair  of  turkeys  of  their  featners. 

When  both  heads  were  quite  bald,  saving  three 
scalp-locks  on  the  crown,  they  dressed  these  up 
in  their  own  savage  fashion.  Two  of  them  were 
:vrapped  about  with  a  narrow,  beaded  strap  made 
by  themselves  for  that  end;  the  other,  they 
plaited  at  fuU  length,  and  stuck  full  of  sUver 

brooches. 

After  this,  and  while  the  eyes  of  the  suflferers 
were  still  streaming  with  tears  of  pain,  they  bored 
their  noses  and  ears,  and  fixed  them  oS  with  ear- 
rings of  silver,  and  nose-jewels. 


26 


LOT  LESLIE  S   FOLKS. 


^ 


K'ext,  ordering  them  to  strip  off  their  clothes, 
the  savages  painted  their  bodies,  limbs,  and  faces 
with  many  brilliant  colors. 

Timothy  and  Willy  were  still  smarting  and 
stinging  (although  in  a  brave  silence),  from  the 
many  wounds  upon  their  heads  and  faces,  when 
their  masters  put  big  belts  of  wampum  around 
their  necks,  and  fastened  silver  bands  on  their 
iiands  and  right  arms. 

In  this  savage  rig,  an  old  chief  led  them' out 
into  the  main  street  of  the  village,  and  cried  aloud 
very  quickly,  several  times:  ''Coo-wigh!  coo- 
wigh  !  "—being  the  Indian  for  '*  Halloo ! " 

At  this,  all  the  tribe  came  running,  and  stood 
about  the  old  chief,  who  held  the  captives  by  the 
hand — the  one  on  his  right,  the  other,  on  his  left. 

Grindstone  fully  expected  that  he  and  Willy 
were  now  about  to  be  put  to  death  in  some  cruel 
fashion.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  feeling 
very  ignorant,  and  helpless,  and  unfitted  to  die ; 
but  saying  solemnly : 

"  Lord  have  mercy  on  me,  and  forgive  me  all 
my  sins,  for  Jesus'  sake !  Amen."  Words,  which 
little  Willy  repeated  after  him,  in  a  small,  soft 
voice. 

His  whisper  was  quite  drowned  by  the  very 
loud  voice  of  the  old  chief,  v/ho  made  a  speech 
to  the  crowd,  handing  oyer  the  captives,  at  its 
end,  to  three  young  Indians. 


r 


heir  clothes, 
}s,  and  faces 

narting  and 
!e),  from  the 
faces,  when 
pura  around 
ids  on  their 

ed  them  out 
1  cried  aloud 
-wiyh !  coo- 
ool" 

^,  and  stood 
)tives  by  the 
',  on  his  left. 
B  and  Willy 
1  some  cruel 
iven,  feeling 
itted  to  die ; 

rgive  me  all 
"^ords,  kvhich 
I  small,  soft 

by  the  very 
ide  a  speech 
■lives,  at  its 


TIMOTHY   AND  WILLY   ABE  ADOPTED. 


27 


These  led  Timothy  and  the  boy  down  the  ad- 
jacent bank  to  the  river,  urging  them  straight 
on,  until  the  water  was  up  to  Willy's  chm. 

Then,  the  savages  made  signs  to  Grindstone  to 
duck  himself  and  Willy  in  the  river. 

But,  the  white  man,  not  understandmg  their 
monkey-shines,  and  believing  they  meant  to 
drown  him  and  the  child,  made  as  if  he  would 
swim  for  his  life;  at  which,  the  Indians  seized 
both  man  and  boy,  and  soused  them  in  the  water, 
giving  them  a  good  washing  and  rubbing. 

The  cool  water  was  very  pleasant  to  their 
wounds,  yet  the  poor  sufferers  stiU  feared  the 

worst. 

One  of  their  tormentors  who  spoke  a  little 
English  managed  to  say,  however,  "No  hurt 
you ! "  which  gave  the  captives  some  comfort  and 
courage ;  but,  all  the  while,  the  savages  on  the 
bank  of  the  river,  cried  out:  '' Quethepeh ! ' 
(Make  haste!)  and  laughed  long  and  loud  at  the 
struggles  of  the  half-drowning  creatures. 

The  bath  being  ended,  Timothy  and  the  boy 
were  led  up  to  the  council-house,  where  some  of 
the  tribe  dressed  them  out  in  new  ruffled  shirts, 
leggings  trimmed  with  beads  and  gay  ribbons, 
handsome  mocoasins  and  garters.  Their  heads 
and  faces  were  again  painted  in  bright  colors, 
and  a  bunch  of  red  and  yellow  feathers  tied  to 
the  scalp-look^  on  the  crown  of  each. 


28 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


Seated  on  a  bear-skin,  with  Willy  at  his  side, 
Timothy  was  presented  with  a  pipe,  a  tomahawk, 
and  a  pouch  made  from  the  hide  of  a  pole-cat, 
and  stuffed  with  tobacco,  and  dry  sumach  leaves. 
Willy  was  also  given  a  small  knife  and  a  baby 
tomahawk,  with  flint,  steel,  and  a  piece  of  touch- 
wood. 

Then,  the  rest  of  the  Indians  came  into  the 
council-chamber,  dressed,  painted  and  plumed  in 
their  grandest  fashion. 

They  took  their  seats  in  the  order  of  their 
rank ;  and,  for  a  good  while,  smoked  their  pipes 
in  profound  silence. 

At  length,  the  oldest  chief  made  a  speech  to 
the  captives,  which  was  explained  to  them,  on 
the  spot,  by  the  Indian  who  spoke  the  best 
English. 

The  old  chief  said : 

"  My  big  son  and  my  little  son,  you  are  now 
flesh  of  our  flesh,  and  bone  of  our  bone.  By  the 
ceremony  Just  performed,  every  drop  of  white 
blood  has  been  washed  out  of  your  veins.  Tou 
are  taken  into  the  Caughnewaga  nation.  You 
are  adopted  into  our  warlike  tribe,  in  the  place  of 
a  great  man,  my  brother,  who  once  belonged  to 
us,  and  of  his  little  son,  who  is  also  dead.  After 
what  has  passed  this  day,  you  are  one  of  us  by 
an  old  strong  law  of  ours.  You  have,  now,  noth- 
ing to  fear.    We  are  as  much  bound  to  love,  sup- 


TIMOTHY   AND   WILLY   ARE  ADOPTED. 


29 


it  his  side, 
omahawk, 
a  pole-cat, 
Etch  leaves, 
.nd  a  baby 
9  of  touoh- 

8  into  the 
plumed  in 

ir  of  their 
their  pipes 

I.  speech  to 
I  them,  on 
)  the  best 


>u  are  now 
B.  By  the 
)  of  white 
jins.  Tou 
bion.  You 
he  place  of 
lelonged  to 
ad.  After 
le  of  us  by 
now,  noth- 
}  love,  sup- 


port, and  defend  you,  from  this  out,  as  if  you 
were  born  children  of  the  forest,  sons  of  our  own 

great  family." 

The  cunning  old  chief  said  nothing  about  the 
ancient  tradition  of  his  tribe,  which  made  Willy 
especially  valuable  and  desirable  to  the  Caugh- 
newagas.  It  had  been  early  agreed  between  him 
and  his  council,  that  it  would  be  safer  to  suppress 
the  facts  from  the  captives,  lest  they  should  pre- 
sume too  much  upon  their  privileges; 

But  the  old  superstition  of  the  tribe  added 
greatly  to  the  warmth  of  their  welcome,  as  the 
Indians  crowded  around  "  brother"  Timothy  and 
"nephew"  Willy  who,  for  their  part,  were  not 
as  much  elated  at  the  new  relationship,  as  their 
hosts  might  have  supposed. 

While  Timothy  was  turning  over  in  his  mind 
what  had  been  said  to  them ;  and,  truth  to  tell, 
not  putting  much  trust  in  the  fine  words  of  the 
old  chief,— a  big  savage,  painted  black,  and,  flour- 
ishing over  his  head  a  belt  of  red  wampum,  darted 
into    the  council-chamber,  shouting  in  terrific 

tones : 

"  Haukimah  has  returned !  Haukimah  has  re- 
turned !  TiMscag  (this  night),  he  comes  to  lead 
us  to  war  against  the  Wyandots  I " 


CHAPTER  III. 

LOVE  FINDS  A  WAY,   AND— A   MOTHER. 

In  the  upper  chamber  of  a  large,  old-fashioned 
house,  on  the  outskirts  of  Montreal,  a  young  and 
beautiful  lady  sat  alone. 

The  room  was  spacious,  and  richly  furnished 
as  a  bedroom.  Costly  rugs  lay  about  on  the 
polished  floor;  delicate  laces  veiled  the  great 
windows,  looking  front  upon  the  suburbs  of 
more  than  two  centuries  ago ;  and  opening  back 
upon  a  big,  splendid  garden,  full  of  midsummer 
bloom,  and  scent,  and  song. 

On  tho  walls,  hung  many  an  oil-painting  (of 
the  great  masters)  of  the  Madonna  and  her  Holy 
Child ;  with,  here  and  there,  dainty  pictures  on 
ivory  or  copper  of  the  angels  and  saints  of  God. 

But  the  sad  eyes  of  the  young  and  beautiful 
lady  were  not  fixed  upon  these  as  long  or  as 
wistfully  as  they  were  on  another  and  smaller 
picture  hanging  over  the  Blessed  Virgin's  shrine, 
beside  the  huge,  carved,  mahogany  bedstead, 
with  its  curtains  of  crimson  silk. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  little  girl  of  some  three 
or  four  summers.     The  face  was  lovely  as  that 

30 


lOTHEB. 

Id-fashioned 
a,  young  and 


ly 


furnished 
}out  on  the 
d  the  great 

suburbs  of 
•pening  back 

midsummer 

-painting  (of 
,nd  her  Holy 
'  pictures  on 
ints  of  God. 
md  beautiful 
I  long  or  as 
and  smaller 
rgin's  shrine, 
ly  bedstead, 

>f  some  three 
>vely  as  that 


LOVE  FINDS  A   WAY,   AND— A  MOTHER.     31 

of  a  cherub.  Its  dimpled  cheeks  were  round  and 
rosy  as  t.win-ftowers.  Under  the  broad,  white 
brow,  round  which  clustered  a  crop  of  silken  curls 
of  deep,  rich  red,  a  pair  of  wonderful  eyes  smiled 
out  at  the  gazer-large,  black,  and  soft  as  velvet, 

with  long  fringy  lashes. 
The  pretty  pouting  lips,  like  the  halves  of  a 

divided  cherry,  seemed  ready  to  speak  the  word, 

"Mammal" 
Hot  tears  rushed  into  the  lady's  eyes,  as  she 

gazed,  and  ran  in  streams  down  her  pale  cheeks. 
The  face  on  the  wall  was  so  faithful  a  little 

copy  of  her  own,  that  it  was  easy  to  guess  the 

cause  of  her  grief,  even  before  she  covered  her 

eyes  with  her  wnite  jewelled  hands,  and  sobbed 

aloud:  «  t       1.1 

"  My  only  one  I  my  lost  Marianne  1    If  I  could 

but  hear  you  call  me  'mamma!'  once  again! 

How  can  I  bear  it?    A  year,  to^ay,  since  my 

darling  baby  died!" 
She  rose  fiom  her  chair,  and  went  to  the  big 

mahogany  chest  Oi  drawers  on  the  opposite  side 

of  the  room. 

She  drew  a  key  from  the  silver  chain  at  her 
girdle.  Opening  with  it  an  upper  drawer,  she 
took  out  of  it,  with  many  kisses  and  tears,  some 
little  dresses,  a  baby's  embroidered  pinafore,  and 
a  pair  of  tiny  shoes,  still  bearing  the  wrinkles  of 
fat  ittle  ankles,  and  the  print  of  baby  toes. 


1 ■> 

111.  I II II  WW— i—^a— 11 


8S 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


■  A  shower  oi  withered  rose  leaves  fell  out  of 
the  folds  of  the  snowy  garments ;  and  with  them, 
dropped  upon  the  floor,  (from  a  bit  of  silver 
paper,)  a  silky  ourl  of  Titian  red. 

Stooping,  the  lady  caught  it  quickly  up.  She 
was  pressing  it  tenderly  to  her  lips,  when  a  rap 
came  at  the  chamber-door,  and  a  waiting-maid 
entered.  A  small,  dark  woman,  with  a  quiet, 
attentive  face. 

"  Madame,"  said  she,  '*  the  old  Indian  squaw  is 
here  again.    She  has  journeyed  far ;  she  is  very 
tired  and  hungry.    Will  you  please  come  into 
the  kitchen,  and  see  what  she  has  brought  you  ?  " 
"  In  a  moment,  Margot,"  replied  Madame  St. 
Ange— for  that  was  her  name.    "Give  the  old 
woman  some  bread  and  coffee ;  and  let  her  rest 
in  the  lower  hall  until  I  come." 
With  a  low  curtsey,  the  maid  departed. 
Then,  in  the  perfumed  solitude  of  her  beanti- 
fol  chamber,  after  softly  smoothing  out  the  little 
garments,  piece  by  piece,  and  laying  them  lov- 
ingly back  in  the  drawer,  the  lady  kissed  once 
more  the  tress  of  baby  hair,  and  hid  it  among 
the  faded  rose  leaves. 

This  done,  the  key  turned  in  the  drawer,  and 
restored  to  her  chaMm/M^  Madame  St.  Ange 
bathed  b.ar  reddened  eyelids  in  rose-water  from 
a  crystal  cruet  on  her  toilet-table,  and  passed 
down  the  staircase  to  the  big  sunny  hall. 


IP 


Tr 


LOVB  FINDS   A    WAY,   AND— A   MOTIIKR. 


38 


fell  out  of 
with  them, 
t  of  silver 

y  up.  She 
when  a  rap 
aiting-maid 
th  a  quiet, 

an  gqnaw  is 
she  is  very 
come  into 
ughtyou?" 
Madame  St. 
ive  the  old 
i  let  her  rest 

irted. 

:  her  beanti- 
>ut  the  little 
g  them  lov- 
kissed  once 
id  it  among 

drawer,  and 
le  St.  Ange 
>-water  from 
and  passed 
haU. 


The  old  squaw  had  just  finished  her  bowl  of  cof- 
fee at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

She  stood  up  at  the  sound  of  the  mistress'  step. 
She  was  ugly,  dark,  and  dirty ;  but  her  wrinkled 
face,  with  the  double  dewkp  under  the  chin,  was 
not  a  bad  face.    It  had  a  motherly,  friendly 

look. 

"Well,  N'-o-kum,"  said  Madame  St  Ange, 
kindly,  "  what  have  you  to  sell  to^ay  ?" 

"Behold,  Madame  1"  cried  Margot,  with  a 
laugh,  pointing  to  a  small  object  inside  the  ad- 
joining kitchen,  which,  (standing  as  she  did  with 
her  back  to  the  half-closed  door),  Madame  St. 
Ange  had  not  yet  discovered. 

Now,  pushing  wide  the  door,  and  stepping  for- 
ward into  the  kitchen,  the  lady  saw,  with  sur- 
prise, a  baby-girl  crawling  on  the  tiled  floor,  and 
picking  some  apple-peelings  out  of  the  cracks. 

The  child  was  so  dirty  that  her  skin  was  dark 
as  N'-o-kum's.  Her  clothes  were  in  rags ;  and  a 
filthy  cloth  was  tied  tightly  over  her  head,  com- 
pletely covering  her  hair. 

There  was  nothing  eye^weet  or  pleasing  in 
her  looks,  but  Madame's  tender  heart  moved  her 
to  stoop  and  pat  the  forlorn  little  head,  saying 
softly :  "  Poor  little  baby  I  poor  motherless  little 

papoose  1" 

«  No  papoose  I "  grunted  the  old  squaw,  "  white 
baby,  white  bi^by.    N'-o-kum  want  attawom:' 


BBW?«HWP!!i^ 


I 


M 


LOT  LKSLIE'S  folks. 


•♦  N'-Q-kum  wants  to  sell  you,  does  she,  cherie  f  " 
said  Madame,  still  kindly  stroking  the  small  head 
at  her  feet. 

At  the  sight  of  the  fair,  gentle  face  stooping 
tenderly  over  her,  the  poor  little  baby  caught  at 
the  hem  of  Madame's  gown,  and  hiding  her  eyes 
in  it,  burst  into  tears,  with  a  loud  cry. 

Madame's  motherly  heart  was  deeply  moved. 

She  was  a  good  Christian.  She  had  always 
been  used  to  look  upon  and  love  the  poor,  espe- 
cially poor  little  children,  as  the  living  images  of 
her  Lord  and  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ. 

She  now  took  the  little  waif  into  her  arms ; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  dirt  and  rags,  pressed  her 
dose  to  her  warm  bosom. 

The  baby  clung  about  her  neck,  hugging 
her,  again  and  again,  and  sobbing  "Mammal 
mamma!"  till  Madame's  eyes  overflowed  with 

tears. 

"For  Mademoiselle  Marianne's  sake,"  she 
whispered  to  Margot,  "I  would  like  to  buy 
the  little  creature,  and  keep  her  for  my  own. 
But  what  \  \,AA  Monsieur,  my  husband  say  ?" 

The  maid  shrugged  her  shoulders  significantly, 
and  made  a  despairing  gesture— her  hands  ex- 
tended with  the  palms  thrown  upward. 

Her  mistress  sighed  deeply.  Carrying  the 
child  over  to  N'-o-kum,  she  put  her  reluctantly 
into  the  old  squaw's  arms. 


I 


LOVK   FINDS    A   WAY,   AND— A   MOTHKR. 


35 


he,  cherie  f  " 
e  small  head 

ace  stooping 
iy  caught  at 
ing  her  eyes 

y- 

ply  moved, 
had  always 
e  poor,  espe- 
Qg  images  of 

o  her  arms; 
,  pressed  her 

jok,  hugging 
g  "Mamma! 
rflowed  with 

sake,"  she 
like  to  buy 
for  my  own. 
and  say  ?  " 
significantly, 
er  hands  ex- 
ird. 

Carrying  the 
r  reluctantly 


"Monsieur  St.  Ange  is  absent  kom  home," 
she  said  to  the  Indian  woman.     "  I  cannot  take 
the  baby  from  you,  to-day.     Maybe,  the  Sisters 
at  the  convent  will  buy  her." 
Then  to  the  maid : 

"  Margot,  give  the  child  a  cup  of  warm  milk, 
and  send  her  away  with  N'-o-kura." 

Madame's  heart  was  very  sore  as  she  spoke  the 
words.  It  cost  her  a  sharp  pang  to  give  up  the 
baby  to  the  squaw. 

The  poor  little  thing  struggled  fiercely  m 
N'-o-kum's  arms,  and  stretched  out  her  fat  hands  to 
the  beautiful  white  lady,  screaming  aU  the  while: 
"  Mamma !  mamma  1  me  want  my  mamma  1 " 

Madame  St.  Ange  hurried  out  of  the  kitchen, 
and  retreated  to  her  chamber  to  escape  those 
piercing  cries  — those  tender  pleadings,  that 
awakened  in  her  breast  so  many  sad  and  touch- 
ing memories.  .  -»,  *  i 
Her  husband  was  a  rich  merchant  of  Montreal. 
He  had  gone  on  a  business  trip  to  Quebec,  and 
was  not  exiiected  back  for  a  week  or  t:7o. 

He  was  a  good  man— an  excellent  Christian— 
always  very  kind  and  indulgent  to  his  lovely, 

young  wife. 

But  he  had  one  weakness— common  to  his  na- 
tion. He  was  excessively  proud  of  his  name,  and 
of  his  long  line  of  illustrious  ancestors. 

He  could  eyen  be  a  little  stern  on  these  pomts ; 


f'  il 


86 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


SO  that  Madame  did  not  feel  sure  enough  of  his 
aristocratic  benevolence  to  buy  the  strange  baby 
from  the  squaw  in  his  absence,  and  adopt  it  for 
her  own. 

True,  she  had  plenty  of  money  in  her  private 
purse  (always  kept  well  supplied  by  her  hus- 
band) ;  and,  in  a  corner  drawer  of  her  cabinet 
was  a  dazzling  array  of  gilt  beads,  gaudy  feath- 
ers, silver  chains,  and  other  trinkets,  for  any  one 
of  which  N'-o-kum  would  have  joyfully  bartered 
her  whole  tribe — to  say  nothing  of  a  miserable 
little  white  child. 

Madame  remembered,  however,  that  when  the 
rich  old  merchant,  Louis  St.  Ange,  had  done  her 
the  honor  of  making  her  his  wife,  she  had  been 
only  a  simple  Irish  maiden,  Eileen  O'Connell, 
the  protegee  of  his  favorite  sister,  the  Superioress 
of  the  Ursuline  convent  who  had  educated  her. 

Beautiful  as  an  angel,  but  without  money,  and 
without  ancestors  of  any  account — save  for  their 
Christian  virtues — Eileen  was  deeply  grateful  for 
this  noble  gentleman's  love,  for  the  many  splen- 
did proofs  of  his  entire  devotion  to  her. 

If  now,  it  had  been  but  a  question  of  buying  a 
spaniel  or  a  singing-bird  I  But  she  would  never 
grieve  or  annoy  Louis  by  any  wilful  act — even 
though  it  were  in  the  cause  of  holy  charity. 

As  twilight  began  to  fall,  she  put  aside  the 
needle  work,  with  which  she  had  striven  to  dis- 


enough  of  his 
strange  baby 
d  adopt  it  for 

in  her  private 
by  her  hus- 
t  her  cabinet 
gaudy  feath- 
3,  for  any  one 
fully  bartered 
>f  a  miserable 

hat  when  the 
had  done  her 
she  had  been 
)n  O'Connell, 
le  Superioress 
lucated  her. 
It  money,  and 
save  for  their 
y  grateful  for 
e  many  splen- 
her. 

u  of  buying  a 
)  would  never 
ful  act — even 
charity, 
put  aside  the 
striven  to  dis- 


LOVE  FINDS   A   WAY,  AND— A   MOTHER.     37 

traxst  her  thoughte  from  the  forlorn  baby,  and 
walked  to  one  of  the  windows,  lookmg  down 
upon  the  road  in  front  of  her  stately  house. 
Pushing  apart  the  lace  curtains,  she  saw  N  o-kum, 
wi^h  several  young  Indian  men,  squatting  on  the 
pavement,  close  to  the  main  entrance.    The  poor 
baby  had  crawled  away  from  her  redskmned 
nurse,  and  was  creeping  up  the  steps,  beatmgthe 
marble  with  her  plump  little  hands,  and  scream- 
ing   still   the   same   pitiful   cry:    "Mammal 
mamma  I  me  want  my  mamma  I " 

The  warm  Irish  heart  of  EUeen  St.  Ange  ach^ 
at  the  sound.  Had  not  she  herself  been  a  found- 
ling,  dropped  by  night  into  the  basket  at  the  con- 
vent door  by  her  decent  young  mother,  whom 
the  nuns  found,  next  morning,  dying  upon  their 

*  Tho  was  better  able,  than  she,  to  feel  for  the 
sorrows  of  the  homeless  and  the  motherless? 

Long  after  the  doors  of  the  big  house  were 
barred  and  bolted  for  the  night-the  maids  in 
their  beds,  and  sUence  and  darkness  filling  all  the 
spacious  rooms,  the  young  mistress  of  all  their 
splendors,  wide  awake  upon  her  couch,  heard 
through  the  open  windows-for  it  was  a  warm 
August  night-the  wailing  cry  of  the  hapless 
baby  at  her  door. 

The  whole  night  long,  the  shrill  voice  of  the 
child  was  never  quiet.    It  would  have  been  very 


i, 


88 


LOT  LKSLIE'S   folks. 


easy  for  N'-o-kum  and  her  baud  to  whip  or  frighten 
the  baby  into  silence ;  but  the  savages  had  a  pur- 
pose of  their  own  in  letting  it  cry,  unchecked. 

The  old  squaw  was  keen-eyed,  and  shro'vvd 
enough. 

She  had  seen  the  tears,  that  day,  on  the  white 
lady's  lovely  cheeks.  She  had  noticed  how  ten- 
derly the  young  mistress  had  pressed  the  baby  to 
her  boscm. 

Was  it  not,  out  of  that  handsome  house,  that  a 
small  white  coffin,  covered  with  flowera,  passed, 
a  year  before? 

Haukimah,  the  chief,  had  said  to  N'-o-kum  at 
parting :  **Attawotn  ahiahasJieu  netarms — sell  the 
little  girl  I  Barter,  her  to  the  French  for  what 
she  will  bring." 

And  now,  N'-o-kum  was  letting  the  baby  cry, 
and  cry,  and  cry — always—"  Mamma  1  mamma  1 " 
— until  Madame,  the  pale  face,  would  be  able  to 
stand  it  no  longer,  but  would  open  her  door  at 
the  daybreak,  and  come  down  the  steps,  saying : 

"  Here,  N'-o-kum,  here  is  your  price !  Take  it, 
and  go  your  way ;  but  leave  me  the  child ! " 

So,  indeed,  it  fell  out,  in  time ;  only,  instead  of 
Madame,  the  mistress,  Margot  the  maid  came 
down  the  steps  at  sunrise,  and,  for  a  handful  of 
silver  and  a  string  of  gilt  beads,  was  given  the 
poor,  hungry,  crying  baby,  which  she  carried 
away    with    her,  upstairs  to  her  lady's  room. 


..JSS^UJiSSJt^-^. 


>  or  frighten 
»  had  a  pur- 
ichecked. 
and  shrc't^'^d 

m  the  white 

led  how  ten- 

the  baby  to 

louse,  that  a 
vers,  passed, 

N'-o-kum  at 
*w — sell  the 
ich  for  what 

le  baby  cry, 
1  mamma!" 
id  be  able  to 

her  door  at 
eps,  saying : 
e  I    Take  it, 
hUdl" 
Yf  instead  of 

maid  came 
a  handful  of 
as  given  the 

she  carried 
ady's  room. 


LOVE  FINDS   A    WAY,   AND— A    MOTIIKR.     89 

N'-o-kum  and  her  gang  departed  at  once,  grinning 
and  capering  with  delight. 

Madame  St.  Ange  in  a  white  linen  dressing- 
gown,  looking  almost  as  white  as  the  linen  from 
her  sleepless  righv  of  heart-ache  and  conflicting 
fears,  stretched  out  her  arms  eagerly  for  the 
child. 

But  Margot  (who  had  her  doubts  about  the 
whole  business)  held  fast  to  the  baby,  growling : 

"Not  yet,  my  lady,  not  yetl  The  wretched 
little  creature  is  fil  >hy.  She  is  covered  with  ver- 
min, and  too  dirty  for  Madame  to  handle.  Let 
me  first  take  her  into  the  closet,  and  give  her,  if 
you  please,  a  warm  bath  in  Mam'selle  Marianne's 
tub." 

A  great  sob  shook  the  young  mother  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Yes,  Margot,"  she  whispered :  "  a  warm  bath, 
first,  in  Mam'selle  Marianne's  tub.  I  never 
thought  I  could  bring  myself  to  see  her  pretty 
clothes  upon  another;  but  here,"— running  to 
the  chest  of  drawers,  and  taking  out  an  armful  of 
her  dead  child's  belongings— "  when  the  poor 
baby  is  dean,  put  on  her,  good  Margot,  these 
things  of  my  little  lost  one  1 " 

The  maid  disappeared  with  her  charge;  and 
Madame  St.  Ange  kneeling  upon  her  prayer- 
stool,  and  gazing,  by  turns,  at  the  parian  statue 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  its  niche  and  at  the 


I 


-yiiWiiyi4*^-iiaiia^ 


40 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


portrait  of  the  lovely  child  that  hang  above  it, 
said  her  morning  prayers  with  many  tears,  and 
offered  up  to  God,  out  of  a  full  heart,  the  little 
stranger  within  her  gates. 

She  had  some  serious  misgivings  and  anxieties 
to  lay  before  the  Divine  Consoler.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  her  married  life  that  she  had  acted 
in  a  matter  of  any  moment  without  her  bus- 
band's  knowledge  and  consent. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  question,  here,  of  the 
salvation  of  a  precious  soul ;  but  would  the  faith 
of  the  exclusive  old  merchant  victoriously  stand 
this  crucial  test?  Eileen  hid  her  face  as  she 
prayed.  It  seemed  to  her  excited  fancy  as  if 
the  air  were  filled  with  the  aristocratic  phantoms 
of  the  dead  St.  Anges,  who  glared  sternly  at  her, 
reproaching  her  with  their  cold  eyes  for  this 
deed  of  mercy  done  to  an  outcast  child  beneath 
their  honored  descendant's  roof. 

Presently,  an  outcry  in  the  closet  startled  her 
from  her  doubts  and  her  devotions. 

The  voice  of  Margot  rose  in  a  shrill  shriek— 
half-laughing,  half -crying :  "  A  miracle,  my  lady, 
a  miracle !  M<m  Dim !  Come,  quick,  and  see 
the  miracle ! " 

The  closet  door  was  flung  open  at  the  word, 
and  the  usually  quiet  maid  bounced  into  the 
room,  strangely  flushed  and  flurried,  pushing  be- 
fore her,  through  the  lace  portieres,  with  that 


ing  above  it, 
ly  tears,  and 
atf  the  little 

ind  anxieties 
It  was  the 
he  had  iacted 
out  her  hus^ 

here,  of  the 
luld  the  faith 
riousiy  stand 
face  as  she 
fancy  as  if 
tic  phantoms 
temly  at  her, 
syes  for  this 
cshild  beneath 

t  startled  her 

irill  shriek— 
icle,  my  lady, 
nick,  and  see 

at  the  word, 
iced  into  the 
1,  pushing  be- 
>M,  with  that 


T 


1 


LOVE  FINDS  A   WAY,  AND— A   MOTHER.    41 

same  queer  laugh,  broken  by  hysterical  sobs— 
what  f  Was  it  a  vision  from  the  innocent  dead  ? 
Was  it  an  angel  visitant  from  Paradise  ? 

Before  the  bewildered  lady,  stood  a  lovely 
child— <A«  living  image  of  Ker  lost  Marianne  f 

There,  was  the  same  round,  rosy,  cherub-like 
face— there,  the  same  mass  of  silken,  dark-red 
ringlets— the  same  great,  black,  velvety  eyes 
with  their  long,  curling  lashes ! 

"Mammal  mamma!"  cried  the  pouting, 
cherry  lips;  and,  opening  her  arms,  Madame 
St.  Ange  gathered  into  them  the  warm,  white, 
precious  burden,  and  pressed  it  so  closely  to  her 
heaving  breast,  that  the  baby  was  frightened  at 
the  strong  throbbings  of  the  mother's  happy 
heart,  and  uttered  a  new  cry :    "  Papa  1 " 

"Eileen,  my  wife!"  said  a  deep  voice  at  the 
door  behind  her:  "What  is  the  meaning  of 
this  ?    Am  I  dreaming,  or  do  I  see ?  " 

"  Our  lost  Marianne !  our  angel,  come  back  to 
us  from  heaven  1  Forgive  me,  Louis !  I  could  not 
help  but  take  her  in  ?  " 

And,  flying  to  her  husband's  embrace,  Eileen 
St.  Ange  cast  her  beautiful  burden  upon  his  broad 
breast,  and  laid  down  her  own  bright  head  bfr 
side  it,  with  a  heavenly  joy  and  content  seldom 
tasted  on  earth. 

If  the  merchant's  dark  brows  contracted,  if  his 
cheek  paled,  and  his  stern  lips  were  drawn  with 


mmmmm 


4Si 


LOT  LEHLIE'S   folks. 


a  sting  of  secret  anguish,  Madame  and  her  baby- 
guest  saw  it  not. 

Only  Margot  witnessed  the  change  in  her  mas- 
ter's face;  but  the  trusty  maid  kept  her  own 
counsel,  and  at  once  quitted  the  room. 

She  went  downstairs  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
began  to  dust  the  frami  s  of  the  great  windows, 
looking  to  the  front. 

All  was  quiet  in  the  sunny  road.  Nothing  was 
in  sight,  save  a  black  bundle  lying  in  the  road- 
side 

Had  she  gone  earlier  to  her  task,  she  would 
have  beheld  another  singular  scene.  As  old 
N'-o-kum  and  her  followers  were  ♦rudging  away 
from  the  merchant's  door,  a  pale,  wild-eyed 
woman  who  had  been  scrubbing  the  steps  of  a 
bakeshop  opposite,  rushed  across  the  street,  and, 
catching  at  the  squaw's  blanket,  sobbe<?  more 
than  said : 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  baby  ?  Where 
have  you  left  my  child — my  little  Love  ?  " 

It  was  the  child's  own  mother — it  was  Mistress 
Lot  Leslie ! 

With  her  husband,  she  had  been  sold  by  the 
Indians  to  the  baker,  Jean  Martin,  whose  shop 
could  be  seen  from  the  windows  of  the  St.  Ange 
mansion. 

Truth,  certainly,  is  sometimes  stranger  than 
fiction. 


■IP 


mim 


id  her  baby- 

i  in  her  inas- 
ipt  her  own 
n. 

ig-room,  and 
>at  windows, 

N^othing  was 
in  the  road- 
ie, she  would 
ne.  As  old 
iidging  away 
e,  wild-eyed 
le  steps  of  a 
3  street,  and, 
obbeff   more 


LOVE  FINDS   A    WAY,   AND— A  MOTHER. 

The  Indian  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
and  shook  off  the  hand  upon  her  blanket. 

«  Baby  aU  right ! "  she  grunted  :  "  Baby,  good 
wigwam  1  Baby,  netansie  kind  saw  enogan  nigah, 
(daughter  of  a  beautiful  mother).     Quithipeh! 

(make  heart ! )" 

And  all  the  other  Indians  marched  past  the 
weeping  mother,  wagging  their  heads,  and  cry- 
ing in  mockery :    "  Qulthipeh  !  quithipeh  !  " 

With  a  deep  groan  of  anguish,  as  if  her  over- 
taxed heart  had  broken,  poor,  pretty  Mistress 
Leslie  threw  up  her  arms  above  her  head,  and, 
for  the  second  time  in  her  hardy  life,  dropped  in 
a  dead  faint  among  the  savages. 


by?    Where 

ove?" 

was  Mistress 


i 


\  sold  by  the 
,  whose  shop 
the  St.  Ange 

tranger  than 


immmmmmmm 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  INDIAN  PRINCESS  AND  HER  HANDMAIDENS. 

The  name  of  the  Princess  was  Suitara,  and  she 
was  the  pet  daughter  of  Pontiac,  mighty  chief  of 
the  Ottawas  of  Michigan. 

She  was  not  much  of  a  princess  to  look  at — 
yet  her  father  was  as  truly  king  of  his  tribe  as 
the  royal  George,  who  then  sat  upon  England's 
throne,  was  the  ruler  of  his  people. 

The  girl  was  about  sixteen  years  old.  She  was 
short  and  fat— so  fat,  that  her  small,  cunning 
eyes  seemed  half-buried  in  the  cushions  of  her 
broad,  brown  cheeks.  Her  forehead  was  very 
low,  and  her  nose  and  red  lips  very  thick ;  but 
the  wide  mouth  showed  a  splendid  set  of  white, 
even  teeth  every  time  she  spoke  or  smiled.  Her 
coarse,  black  hair  was  plaited  in  two  long,  heavy 
braids,  that  fell  below  her  waist,  tied  with  knots 
of  many-colored  ribbons ;  and  on  top  of  her  head 
was  set  a  sort  of  crown  of  wampum,  made  of 
shell-beads,  yellow,  purple,  white,  red,  and  black, 
which  glittered  like  jewels  in  the  sun. 

She  wore  a  sack  and  skirt  of  scarlet  cloth, 
richly  embroidered  in  tinsel.    From  her  elbows 


mmmmmmmmm 


maaaaaasasasasis^lissi 


rDMAIDEKS. 

ara,  and  she 
hty  chief  of 

to  look  at — 

his  tribe  as 

»n  England's 

d.  She  was 
lall,  canning 
hions  of  her 
id  was  very 
y  thick ;  but 
set  of  white, 
imiled.  Her 
)  long,  heavy 
d  with  knots 
p  of  her  head 
un,  niade  of 
d,  and  black, 
1. 

icarlet  cloth, 
I  her  elbows 


T- 


AN  INDIAN   PRIN0SS8. 


46 


to  her  hands,  her  arms  were  covered  with  brace- 
lets. There  were  many  necklaces  around  her  fat 
throat ;  and  several  sorts  of  jewelled  rings  in  her 
ears. 

Her  feet  were  small :  her  moccasins,  marvels 
of  sparkling  bead-work.  These,  as  well  as  her 
dress,  were  the  work  of  her  own  hands;  for 
Suitara  had  spent  a  year  or  two  at  the  school  of 
the  Ursuline  nuns  in  Quebec,  and  had,  there, 
learned  to  sew  and  embroider  beautifully. 

She  had  been  taught,  as  well,  to  speak  some 
French ;  and  had  picked  up  a  good  deal  of  Eng- 
lish among  the  young  Yankee  pupils — ^most  of 
them,  little  New  England  girls  who  had  been 
captured  by  the  Indians. 

The  nuns  had  tried  hard  to  make  a  good  Cath- 
olic of  the  Princess.  Once,  indeed,  she  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  obtain  her  father's  permission  to 
be  baptized ;  but,  being  of  a  lazy,  selfish  nature — a 
genuine  child  of  the  forest— she  had  drawn  back 
at  the  last  moment,  remaining  unconverted  from 
her  sensualities  and  superstitions  to  the  end  of 
her  school-days.  She  loved  the  gentle  nuns, 
however,  very  dearly  in  her  savage  fashion,  even 
iiyshe  delighted  in  their  lessons  in  fancy-work, 
mlkre  tium  she  did  in  their  instructions  in  the 
GItedhism. 

She  sat,  now,  upon  the  flat  top  of  a  high  rock 
(overlooking  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Detroit 


%^^ 


itali 


■Hi 


46 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


river),  stringing  beads  for  a  necklace,  on  a  de- 
sign given  her  by  the  Ursuline  Superioress. 

»v/iiie  half-dozen  young  girls  sat  or  squatted 
around  her,  helping  her  with  her  task,  or  busy 
with  like  work  on  their  own  account. 

Two  of  these  handmaidens  were  white.  The 
one  on  her  right,  who  held  toward  her  a  big  clam- 
shell filled  with  many-colored  beads,  is  one  of 
our  young  friends  of  Swan  Island — Faith  Leslie, 
a  plain,  substantial,  rather  ordinary  girl  of  twelve. 
Her  tints  were  all  neutral— grey  eyes,  dust- 
colored  hair,  and  a  dull  complexion. 

Her  little  sister,  Hope,  three  years  younger, 
sat  on  Suitara's  left,  sorting  out  some  tangled 
skeins  of  sewing  silk. 

The  rough  life  among  the  Indians  had  not 
served  Hope  Leslie  as  well  as  it  had  served  her 
more  robust  sister. 

Both  had  now,  for  three  months,  been  the 
slaves  of  the  Indian  Princess.  They  might,  in- 
deed have  been  sold  to  a  more  cruel  and  brutal 
mistress;  but  Suitara  had  a  good  deal  of  the 
savage  in  her,  for  all.  She  was  not  only  selfish 
and  lazy  (as  we  had  said)  but  wilful  and  change- 
able as  the  wind,  and  childishly  pettish  and 
jealous.  ..  ' 

Little  Hope,  who  was  a  sensitive,  nervous  child, 
had  suffered  sadly  in  the  rude  life  of  an  Indian 
lodge. 


AN  INDIAN  PRINCESS. 


«r 


ce,  on  a  d©- 
rioress. 
or  squatted 
aak,  or  busy 

white.  The 
er  a  big  clam- 
ds,  is  one  of 
-Faith  Leslie, 
firl  of  twelve, 
eyes,  dust- 

lars  younger, 
iome  tangled 

ians  had  not 
ad  served  her 

ths,  been  the 
ley  might,  in- 
lel  and  brutal 
1  deal  of  the 
ot  only  selfish 
il  and  change- 
r  pettish  and 

nervons  child, 
9  of  an  Indian 


She  had  grown  tall  for  her  age ;  she  stoojjed  at 
the  shoulders,  had  weak  eyes,  and  was  very  thin 
and  pale.  A  constant  longing  for  her  mother 
and  her  old  home  seemed  to  burn,  like  a  live  coal, 
in  her  little  heart,  wearing  out  her  strength. 

Homesickness,  fear  of  her  surroundings,  and 
the  lack  of  the  bracing  salt-breezes  of  Swan 
Island,  were  plainly  killing  her  by  inches. 

The  other  girls  of  the  group  were  Indians— 
none  c'  them  worthy  of  special  notice,  except 
the  one  who  sat  opposite  Suitara,  on  a  krgo 
boulder,  and  who  was  known  as  Catharine  of 
the  Wyandots. 

She  was  a  small,  brown  maiden  of  strangely 
beautiful  face  and  form.  Dressed  in  a  simple 
garb  of  coarse  blue  flannel,  she  wore  no  orna- 
ments, save  a  brass  rosary-chain  around  her  neck, 
from  which,  hung  on  her  bosom,  a  large  crucifix 
of  the  same  metal. 

There  was  a  lovely  look  of  m'eekness  and  purity 
on  the  peaceful  face  of  this  girl.  Her  soft,  dark 
eyes,  like  those  of  a  frightened  fawn,  were,  most 
of  the  time,  veUed  timidly  by  their  long,  silken 

lashes. 

Altogether,  she  bore  a  striking  likeness  to  the 
picture  of  the  Holy  Virgin  of  Guatfaloupe,  im- 
printed, by  a  miracle,  some  two  centuries  before, 
on  the  leathern  apron  of  a  poor  Mexican  Indian. 

Catharine  of  the  Wyandots  (or  Hurons,  as 


48 


LOT  LKSLIE'S  folks. 


tk 


they  are  better  known),  had  been  the  schoolmate 
of  Sttitara  at  the  convent  of  the  Ursulines ;  but, 
unlike  the  Princess,  she  was  a  papil  of  their 
academy  for  many  yep*  3,  and  became  there  a 
fervent,  practical  Catholic. 

Returning,  at  last,  to  her  tribe,  she  had  carried 
to  them  the  good  tidings  of  salvation ;  and  had 
proved,  from  that  time  on,  the  guardian  angel 
of  her  people.  At  the  request  of  her  father, 
the  chief  sachem,  a  priest  had  been  sent  by  the 
famous  apostle.  Father  Charlevoix,  to  found  a 
mission  near  Fort  Detroit,  a  mile  or  so  above  the 
Wyandot  settlement. 

The  tribe  had  been  Christians,  a  hundred  years 
before;  but  had  lost  the  faith  through  an  in- 
cursion of  the  fierce  Iroquois,  who  had  conquered 
them  in  their  settlement  elsewuere. 

Suitara  was  very  fond  of  Catharine.  She  called 
her  *'  Ne  mist "  or  "  my  elder  sister,"  (as  she  was 
a  little  younger  than  the  Wyandot  girl);  and 
very  patient  and  winning  was  Catharine  with  the 
wilful,  unbaptized  one,  who  had  never  known 
the  sweetness  and  strength  of  the  holy  Sacra- 
ments— hoping  to  induce  her,  before  long,  to 
become  a  practical  Catholic. 

The  Princess  had  now  been  stringing  her  beads 
for  the  tiresome  space  of  fifteen  minutes.  This 
was  an  age  to  the  fickle  creature,  who  was  usually 
restless  as  a  wild  bird. 


»g?  ;  .  -     ■■■vmrr 


msBsmm 


AN   INLIAIi    PRINCE88. 


4» 


\  schoolmate 
lulines;  but, 
pil  of  their 
jne  there  a 

had  carried 
on ;  and  had 
irdian  angel 

her  father, 
.  sent  by  the 

to  found  a 
)0  above  the 

indred  years 
ough  an  in- 
d  conquered 

,  She  called 
'  (as  she  was 
t  girl);  and 
ine  with  the 
ever  known 
holy  Sacra- 
>re  long,  to 

ng  her  beads 
tintes.  This 
>  was  usually 


She  had  been  chattering  away  to  her  girU, 
while  she  wrought,  and  most  of  her  talk  was 
about  the  strange  marvel  that  had  appeared,  the 
night  before,  in  the  heavens. 

The  wise  ones  of  the  tribe  had  beheld  on  the 
face  of  the  full  moon,  the  images  of  an  Indian 
hatchet  and  a  bleeding  scalp;  and  drops  of  rain 
as  red  as  blood,  and  smelling  strongly  of  sulphur 
had  fallen  in  the  early  morning.' 

Catharine  began  to  speak  some  mild  words 
against  putting  faith  in  these  and  other  queer 
signs,  dear  to  the  superstitious  Princess.  She 
urged  that,  doubtless,  they  had  their  cause  in 
some  unknown  law  of  nature. 

"  Hold  y  *ur  tongue,  Ne  mist !  "  pouted  Snitara ; 
"you  are  as  wise  as  a  medicine-man,  but  you 
don't  know  everything.  There  are  ghosts  in  the 
forests,  and  magic  signs  in  the  moon  and  stars, 
that  are  far  beyond  ymir  little  knowledge. — 
There  I  take  that,  and  finish  it !  "—and  she  flung 
at  Catharine  the  half-woven  necklace  she  had 
been  fingering.  "  I  am  going  to  sing  you  all  a 
new  ^«M<— the./Simy  of  Suitara  f  " 

With  a  quick  turn  of  her  fat  hand,  she 
drew  over  her  shoulder,  a  sort  of  rude  guitar 
that  hung  at  her  back,  and  Legan  to  tune  the 
strings. 

>  Both  thcM  fnska  of  nature  actually  occurred  at  thii  point  about 
flw  middle  of  the  eytnteenth  century. 


I 


ii' 


50 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


Music  was  one  of  her  passions,  and  she  showed 
marked  talent  for  it. 

"  The  Song  of  Suitara,"  said  she,  grinning 
around  at  the  girls,  while  her  stumpy  fingers 
strayed  over  the  strings  in  a  wild,  sweet  prelude, 
"  is  not  about  myself,  but  about  the  one  I  was 
named  after.  She  was  the  sister,— the  JVe  mha 
of  my  great-grandmother.  One  of  the  old  squaws 
taught  it  to  me,  last  night,  while  ^\  sat  at  the 
lodge-door,  watching  the  bloody  scalp  cross  the 
silver  of  the  moon." 

With  that,  the  Princess  struck  the  strings 
bravely;  and  began  to  chant  in  the  Ottawa 
tongue  (to  a  queer,  melancholy  tune)  words, 
which  would  be  soinething  like  these  in  English: 

Sing  of  the  bright  Suitara  I 

Sing  of  the  Indian  maid ! 
The  young,  the  broken-hearted. 
Who,  in  her  bloom,  departed 

Into  the  Land  of  Shade  i 

Hair,  like  a  floating  shadow : 
Eyes,  as  the  starbeams  bright; 

And  form  like  waving  willow, 

Or  foam-wreath  on  the  billow, 
Were  hers— her  sire's  delight  I 

He  strove  to  train  his  darling 

To  every  forest-art. 
What  wonder  that  her  graces, 
Her  sweetest  of  all  faces 

Won  the  bravest  heart  7 


'"^ 


"f^ 


[  she  showed 

le,  grinning 
impy  fingers 
veet  prelude, 
le  one  I  was 
-the  Ne  miaa 
le  old  squaws 
sat  at  the 
alp  cross  the 

the  strings 

the  Ottawa 

tune)  words, 

e  in  English : 


W; 


htt 


AN   INDIAN   PBINOESS. 

Not  of  *  dusky  warrior, 

Chief  of  a  swarthy  band ; 
But,  heart  of  a  noble  ranger, 
A  fair-hair'd,  pale-faced  stranger. 
Son  of  the  Saxon  land ! 


Twas  in  the  Moon  of  Flowers, 
In  Nature's  dreamy  mood, 

When  star-rays  softly  quiver 

Upon  the  running  river, 
Suitara  first  was  wooed. 

«  O  love,  sweet  love ! "  he  murmured: 
"  Thy  soft  eyes  turn  on  me  I 

As  swiftly  flows  the  river. 

The  happy,  shining  river. 
To  mingle  with  the  sia  — 

«  So  flows  my  eager  spirit, 
This  longing  soul  of  mine, 
The  light  and  gloom  unheeding, 
Runs  swiftly  (gladly  speeding) 
To  mingle,  love,  with  thine  I " 

And,  warbled  back  Suitara, 
Warm-blushing  in  her  charms: 
«  As  sings  the  deep  sea  ever 
Whene'er  the  shining  river 
Comes  leaping  to  ite  arms ; 

"  E'en  so,  my  fair-hair'd  chieiUia, 
My  river  strong  and  free  I 
My  soul's  deep  sea  rejoices. 
And  all  its  myriad  voices 
Are  singing  glad  to  thee  J " 


ftl 


ym 


52 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


' 


'^1 


Thus,  was  the  tender  wooing 

By  silver  streams  begun ; 

And  ere  the  Moon  of  Flowers 

Had  spent  its  blushing  hours, 

Suitara's  heart  was  won. 

Was  won, — but  not  unheeded 

By  all  that  dusky  tribe, 
Who,  at  the  council-fire, 
Had  roused  her  gloomy  sire. 

With  bitter  jest  and  gibe. 

Fierce  eyes  bad  watched  the  wooing 

Amid  the  forcst-shede ; 
Dark  forms  had  followed,  noiseless. 
With  burning  rage  (yet  voiceless}, 

The  pale-face  and  the  maid. 

The  while,  the  lovers  wandered 
With  smiling  lip  and  eye — 

Beneath  the  summer  heaven, 

A  deadly  oath  was  given ; 

Tht  fair-kair'd  cku/mmt  tH*  t 


m\ 


IP 


-.(,  ^ihexiaii^:sS»^.Si 


I 


wing 
less, 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  YANKEE  WOMAN'8   MESSAGE. 

At  this  point,  the  Princess  broke  off  her  song- 
showing  signs  of  strange  and  strong  excitement. 

She  pouted  out  her  thick,  red  lips,  and  lowered 
her  heavy  brows,  until  her  small  eyes  glowed 
under  them  like  tiny  sparks  of  red  fire. 

She  seemed  to  fairly  pant  and  choke  in  a  burst 
of  passionate  wrath.  Throwing  the  guitar  on 
the  ground,  she  sprang  up,  and  began  to  pace  to 
and  fro,  wringing  her  hands,  and  crying  out  in  a 
loud,  mournful  voice :  "  Oh !  hawe,  hawe,  hawe  !  " 
(or  alasl  alas !  alas !)  with  a  long,  dreary  accent 
on  each  syllable— as  one  who  laments  the  dead. 

Her  Indian  maids  looked  slyly  at  each  other, 
askance,  as  if  to  say :  "  We  know  what  she  is 
crying  about,  don't  we  ?  " 

Whether  or.  not  she  oaugL^.  one  of  these  side- 
long glances,  in  transit,  it  is  Lard  to  say ;  but, 
certain  it  is,  that  the  daughter  of  Pontiao  sud- 
denly stopped  her  mortuary  paiyde  upon  the 
rocks,  caught  up  her  guitar,  and  slung  it  around 
her  neck,  and,  after  spitting  fiercely  at  the  now 
frightened  maids,  bui-st  forth  afresh  into : 

68 


mm 


T^ 


ll^i4l!JiicJIJP>SWWWIMWWW»!%J".':"vw'^^ 


IJH.  I  iTTTTM— MM^  .' 


64 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 

Oh !  sweetly  sleeps  Suitara ! 

The  night  wind  scarcely  stin ; 
And,  in  her  magic  dreaming, 
Her  lover'3  eyes  are  beamiug— 

His  hand  is  clasp'd  in  hers. 


' 


^?  : 


Oh !  sw«;etly  sleeps  Suitara ! 

But  in  the  forest  gloom. 
No  pitying  moon  is  gleaming. 
When,  awful  oaths  redeeming, 

Her  lover  meets  his  doom ! 

Ah  I  ghastly,  cold— he  lieth 

Upon  a  mossy  bed. 
With  faintest  starlight  peeping 
Upon  his  dreamless  sleeping. 

The  desolate,  the  dead  I 


The  sullen  chieftains  gather ; 

— From  out  the  silent  grove, 
They  bear  him,  tiushed  forever. 
Unto  the  shining  river, 

Wherv  ^  st  he  met  his  love. 


Alas !  for  sweet  Suitara  t 
The  sunlight— half-afraid— 

Its  golden  finger  presses 

tJpoN  her  silken  tresses. 

And  wakes  the  sleeping  maid. 


B 


!'!. 


;She  rises  <up  in  gladness, 

V/hile,  like  a  treach'rous  tide. 

Her  happy  dreams  ensnare  her; 

fler  footsteps  swiftly  beak  her 
J)own  to  the  river's  8i<l«u 


ff 


l':^iitkmU£iMi^^-^ 


THB  YANKEE  WOMAN'S  MESBAOB. 

Alas!  alack!    Suitera! 

That  bloody  corse  and  stark . 
How  mocking  is  the  shiver 
Of  sunlight  on  the  river 

When  all  within  is  dark! 

O  brow,  where  is  thy  glory  ? 

O  Love,  thy  winning  art? 
Despair  and  Death  are  breathing 
Their  fun'ral  strains— are  wreathing 

Their  night  shades  round  the  heart! 

Woe,  woe  to  that  sad  maiden! 

She  kneeled  her  on  the  sod ; 
In  anguish  wild  and  lonely, 
She  called  for  mercy  only. 

On  Manitou,  her  God. 

And,  bending  o'er  her  lover. 

Whose  face  the  long  hair  hid. 
(His  blood-drench'd  locks  up-turning,) 
She  rained  her  tear-drops  burning 
On  cheek,  and  brow,  and  lid. 

Then,  sang  she,  there,  in  sorrow, 

A  mad  and  mournful  strain, 
A  dirge  of  happier  hours. 
Of  paling,  fading  flowers, 
That  ne'er  might  bloom  again : 

"Farewell,  thou  rushing  river  I 
O  earth,  farewell,  forever! 

The  Spirit  Land  hath  charms. 
For  there,  my  pale  love  lingers. 
And  waves  his  shining  fingers, 

And  woos  me  to  his  arms! 


55 


"P" 


Hli 


■i 


* 


56  LOT  Leslie's  folks. 

•<  I  come,  O  fair-hair'd  chiefUin  i 

My  spirit  love ! "  she  sang : 
<<  I  come,  my  own  true  hearted ! " 
—  Ere  lip  and  sound  had  parted, 

Suitara  downward  sprang ! 

«  *  «  *  » 

Alas  I  for  mad  Suitara! 

The  waters  cool  and  bright, 
With  rippling,  fond  caresses. 
Closed  o'er  her  streaming  tresses, 

Closed  o'er  her  eyes  of  light) 

Another  Moon  of  Flowers 

Came  smiling,  blushing  still. 
And  beauteous  was  the  quiver 
Of  sunlight  0.1  the  river, 

Or  starlight  on  the  riU. 

But,  in  an  English  homestead 

A  mother  wept  her  dead ; 
And  an  Indian  lodge  was  mourning 
A  face  no  more  returning, 

A  form  forever  fled  I 

With  a  noisy  flourish  on  hei  guitar,  the  Princess 
ended  her  lengthy  recital. 

"Mademoiselle,"  asked  Faith  T^slie  with  a 
look  of  horror  in  her  honest  eyes,  (Suitara  al- 
wtya  made  her  slaves  call  Jier  "Mademoitelle" 
— she  liked  the  courtly  sound  of  it) :  "  Do  you 
really  mean  it  ?  " 

''Mean  what?"  sniffed  her  Highness,  barely 
turning  her  head  to  the  right. 

"That  this— this  Indian  lady,  dashed  herself 


ng 

the  Princess 

eslie  with  a 

(Suitara  al- 

ademoiteUe  " 

) :    "  Do  you 

mess,  barely 

ushed  herself 


THE  YANKEE  WOMAN'S  MESSAGE.  67 

from  the  rook,  and  drown'd  herself,  because  her 
beau  was  killed?" 

"That's  just  what  the  song  means,-' replied 
Suitara,  picking  softly  at  the  strings;  "and  just 
what  I  would  do  myself,  if  anybody  killed  my 
lover,  be  he  red  or  white ! " 

"Oh!  no,  no,  dear,"  said  Catharine  with 
gentle  firmness :  "  you  would  never  do  that !  It 
would  be  a  dreadful  crime  To  kill  one's  self  m 
cold  blood  is  to  rush  straight  into  the  everlasting 
flames  of  hell  I    Oh !  no,  MademoiseUe,  you  would 

n&ver  do  that ! " 

She  spoke  in  French,  and  with  a  strange,  sol- 
emn earnestness. 

"iTemwa.'"  cried  the  Princess  sternly:  "you 
insult  the  memory  of  my  namesake,  of  the  sister 
of  my  great-grandmother.  Have  you  the  impu- 
dence to  tell  me,  before  my  maids,  that  my  an- 
cestor, the  illustrious  Suitara,  is  now  burning  in 
the  eternal  fires  of  hell  ?  I  am  ashamed  of  you, 
m  mis*  !  Ne  his  si  wash  en,  Ne  miss,  (I  am  an- 
gry, elder  sister  I ") 

» Hey,  diddle,  diddle! 
The  cat's  in  the  fiddle ; 

The  dish  hopped  over  the  spoon. 
The  little  dog  laughed 
To  see  the  sport. 
And  the  cow  jumped  oyer  the  moon  I " 

said  a  loud  voice  fo  dose  at  hand,  that  it  made 


J 


68 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


tlifl  maidens  start,  and  the  Princess  spring  to  her 
feet. 

The  speaker  was  a  white  woman,  who  had 
come  along  the  river-road  from  a  Wyandot  hut, 
while  Suitara  was  singing.  All  the  maids  were 
so  busy  with  the  •'>ng,  or  with  their  work,  that 
no  one  had  noticed  her  approach. 

She  was  a  tall,  homely  woman,  loose-jointed, 
and  past  her  first  youth.  She  had  a  queer,  over- 
grown look  in  her  shabby  brown  kersey  coat 
and  skirt  of  yellow  cotton,  which  plainly  rfiowed 
her  bony  ankles,  and  her  large  feet  in  a  pair  of 
old,  broken  shoes. 

In  these  days,  she  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  a  fourth-rats  bicyclist,  about  to  mount  her 
wheel. 

But  Faith  and  Hope  Leslie  had  no  sooner  laid 
eyes  on  her  plain,  honest  face,  than  they  ran  to 
her  with  open  arms,  crying : 

"  Why,  it's  Prudence !  It's  our  own  dear  old 
Prudence  Skillet!" 

"  Lord  love  you,  children  1 "  said  the  newcomer 
cordially,  as  she  caught  to  her  flat  breast  the 
young  things  she  had  nursed  in  babyhood :  "  I'm 
heart-glad  to  see  you  again  1  Didn't  you  tell  'em 
about  me,  Catharine  of  the  Wyandots?"  (turn- 
ing to  the  Indian  girl):  "Didn't  she  think  it 
worth  while  to  remark,  my  pretties,  that  Pru- 
dence Skillet  of  Swan  Island  had  been  sold  by 


)ring  to  her 

I,  who  had 

vandot  hut, 

maids  Avere 

work,  that 

>ose-jointed, 
queer,  over- 
kersey  coat 
inly  diowed 
in  a  pair  of 

en  mistaken 
mount  her 

>  sooner  laid 
they  ran  to 

wn  dear  old 

te  newcomer 
,t  breast  the 
hood:  "I'm 
you  tell  'em 
ots  ?  "  (turn- 
she  think  it 
s,  that  Pru- 
)een  sold  by 


THE  YANKEE  WOMAU'S  MB88AGK. 


59 


them  pesky  redskins  to  her  mother,  Mistress 
Tarbucket,  for— think  of  itl— a  handful  of  rib- 
bons and  beads?" 

"  TarbuHy  good  Prudence,"  corrected  Catharine 
mildly ;  and  even  the  other  Indian  girls  laughed. 
"Botheration  on  their  heathenish  names  I" 
cried  the  Yankee  woman,  straightening  her  cap, 
which  Hope  had  knocked  sideways  in  her  loving 
caresses:  "Isn't  one  of  the  old  squaws  named 
White-washrhnish  i  " 

"  Why-wMhi-brooch  !  "  put  in  the  Princess  in  a 
pet:  ''Ciell  ahe  is  Catharine's  grandmother! 
Ne  misa  !  "  said  she  to  the  Wyandot  girl  in  their 
own  tongue :  "  what  has  brought  this  saucy  slave 
of  yours  here,  to  make  sport  of  our  people  ?  " 

"  Never  you  trouble  yourself  about  it,  my  gal," 
replied  Prudence  with  a  glance  of  loving  respect 
at  her  young  Indian  mistress :  "  If  this  fat  little 
she-bear  must  know  it,  your  good  mother  sent 
me  here  with  a  message.  An  Injin  runner  has 
just  rushed  into  the  blockhouse,  yander.  He 
says  lots  of  strange  canoes  full  of  redskins  is 
coming  up  the  river.  The  best  thing  you  gals 
can  do  is  to  pick  up  your  traps,  and  hurry  back 
with  me  to  the  village ! " 

Before  the  last  words  were  out  of  the  speaker's 
mouth,  Suitara  had  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
thrown  herself  flat  on  her  stomach,  and  leaning 
forward,  peered  anxiously  up  the  stream. 


.J 


TT 


mm 


60 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


There,  sure  enough,  were  the  crowded  boats 
rowing  swiftly  down  the  river  I 

They  were  far  enough  off  to  make  it  impossi- 
ble to  see  if  they  carried  friends  or  foes;  yet 
near  enough  to  strike  terror  to  the  hearts  of  the 
maidens  on  the  rock. 

Springing  again  to  her  feet,  the  Princess 
caught  Catharine  by  one  hand,  Faith  Leslie  by 
thn  other ;  and,  followed  by  the  other  girls,  ran, 
like  a  deer,  toward  the  Wyandot  village,  her 
guitar  rattling  at  her  back,  and  her  long,  black 
braids  standing  out  behind  her  on  the  wind,  as 
if  they  had  been  wired. 

Little  Hope  clung,  \  ale  and  trembling,  to  Pru- 
dence Skillet's  ann. 

But  the  Yankee  woman  held  bravely  up  her 
precious  burden ;  and,  as  she  strode  along  behind 
the  maidens,  she  kept  muttering  texts  to  cheer 
her  young  charge's  heart.  And,  in  spite  of  the 
threatening  peril,  the  little  white  girls  felt  some- 
what at  home  once  more,  as  they  heard  the  old 
familiar  voice  of  their  servitor  mrirmuring : 

"  The  Lord  hath  chastened  me  sore,  yet  He 
hath  not  given  me  over  to  death.  .  .  .  Wait 
on  the  I^rd,  be  of  good  courage,  and  He  shall 
strengthen  thy  heart.  Wait,  I  say,  on  the  Lord ! " 


i^*^ 


^m 


yded  boats 

I  it  impossi- 
p  foes;  yet 
jaxts  of  the 

le  Princess 
1  Leslie  by 
r  girls,  ran, 
irillage,  ber 
long,  black 
he  wind,  as 

ing,  to  Pru- 

«rely  up  her 
ong  behind 
ts  to  cheer 
ipite  of  the 
B  felt  some- 
lard  the  old 
iring: 

>re,  yet  He 

.    .    Wait 

id  He  shall 

the  Lord  1" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MARIANNE  8T.   ANGE. 

Let  us  now  go  back  to  that  early  morning  in 
August,  when  poor  Mistress  Leslie  dropped  down 
in  a  faint,  close  to  the  door  of  the  St.  Ange  man- 
sion in  Montreal. 

Old  N'-o-kum  and  her  Indians  had  long  since 
disappeared.  The  suburban  street  was  still  very 
quiet,  no  one  being  abroad  at  that  hour,  save 
tradesmen,  or  a  few  pious  souls  hurrying  along  to 

early  Mass. 

None  of  these  passed  close  to  the  spot  where 
the  poor  woman  lay,  all  in  a  heap,  upon  the 
pavement. 

At  last.  Lot  Leslie  came  out  of  the  baker's  shop, 
and  was  about  to  fill  with  loaves  of  fresh  bread, 
the  little  cart,  which  he,  daily,  trundled  about  the 
city,  serving  hie  master's  customers. 

His  eye  fell  upon  the  idle  scrubbing  bucket 
and  mop ;  and  then  wandered  to  the  dark  object 
lying  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

He  had  missed  his  wife  from  their  room  over 
the  stable;  but  supposed  she  was  busy  with  her 

61 


69 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


mistress  in  tiie  kitchen,  or  occupied,  as  was  her 
wont,  before  breakfast,  in  cleaning  the  front 
steps. 

Now,  running  across  the  street,  he  saw,  with 
horror,  that  the  senseless  bundle  on  the  side-walk 
wau  really  his  poor  companion  in  misery. 

Her  head  had  been  cut  by  her  fall,  and  her 
face  wan  covered  with  blood  from  the  wound. 

Lot's  piercing  cries  soon  brought  out  the 
frightened  baker,  Jean  Martin,  from  his  shop ; 
and  between  them,  the  men  raised  the  uncon- 
scious woman,  and  carried  her  back  to  her  room 
in  the  stable. 

Before  noon,  the  poor  creature  was  raving  in  a 
high  fever. 

Her  many  sorrows  and  losses,  coupled  with 
the  morning's  shock,  and  the  injury  to  her  head 
in  that  cruel  fall  upon  the  street,  had  brought  on 
an  attack  of  brain-fever. 

For  many  weeks,  poor  Hope  Leslie  hovered 
between  life  and  death. 

Her  mistress,  an  excellent  Catholic  French- 
woman, nursed  her  with  great  charity  and  de- 
votion ;  and  the  baker  kindly  allowed  Lot  many 
a  free  moment  to  watch  beside  her  bed. 

Neither  of  them  knew  that,  on  the  day,  when 
the  poor  woman  was  at  her  worst,  a  splendid 
carriage  rolled  up  to  the  door  of  Louis  St.  Ange'a 
house,    and   stopped    there — the   glossy    white 


fpwmmmmm 


1,  as  was  her 
ig  the  front 

he  saw,  with 
the  side-walk 
isery. 

fall,  and  her 
he  wound, 
ight  out  the 
om  his  shop ; 
d  the  unoon- 
i  to  her  room 

u  raving  in  a 

coupled  with 
y  to  her  head 
\d  brought  on 

«slie  hovered 

holio  French- 
arity  and  de- 
ired  Lot  many 
bed. 

he  day,  when 
»t,  a  splendid 
uis  St.  Ange's 
glossy    white 


{ 


L 


MARIANNE  ST.   ANOE. 


63 


hones,  in  their  gold-mounted  harness,  stamping 
the  ground  and  tossing  their  haughty  heads,  as 
if  eager  to  be  off  again. 

Presently,  the  house-door  opened,  and  Monsieur 
and  Madame  St.  Ange  came  out,  richly  dressed, 
followed  by  Margot,  carrying  in  her  arms  the 
adopted  child. 

Little  Love  vtas  beautiful  as  a  picture  in  the 
exquisite  white  robe,  cloak  and  cap  of  the  dead 
Marianne.  Her  cheeks  were  like  fresh  roses 
after  the  morning  bath,  and  her  big,  black  eyes 
sparkled  with  joy,  as  well  as  with  the  love  for 
her  new  parents. 

When  the  party  were  seated  in  the  carriage, 
the  liveried  coachman  and  footmen  sprang  to 
their  places,  and  away  pranced  the  horses  to  the 
parish  church  of  Notre  Dame. 

Here,  little  Love  was  carried  up  to  the  altar  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  where  the  priest  in  waiting 
baptized  her  for  the  first  time  in  her  little  life, 
giving  her  the  name  of  Marianne  St.  Ange.  Her 
new  parents  knew  her  by  no  other,  as  the  baby 
was  too  young  to  speak  plainly  the  words  "  Love 
Leslie  " ;  and  old  thieving  N'-o-kum  either  did  not 
know,  or  did  not  care  to  jeveal  the  name  of  her 
infant  captive. 

Strange  to  say,  the  priest  who  baptized  little 
Love  had  no  sooner  finished  the  ceremony,  than 
he  was  called  away  to  the  bake-house  of  Jean 


la 


mmmm 


tmm 


^■i^,^  If  Till  i-r.r-Vi---"fAi]in-iir-tiyirtniiikiir-'Tf:;^i;^^^i^"i^"m%-''rff- 


64 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


': 


1 


Martin,  to  attend  there  a  sick  servant,  believed 
to  be  dying  of  brain-fever. 

The  beautiful  charity  of  the  baker's  wife  had 
deeply  touched  the  heart  of  poor  Mistress  Leslie, 
and  opened  for  her  the  door  to  the  Light  of  God, 
the  true  Faith  of  Christ.  When  reason  began  to 
return  to  her  poor  racked  brain,  feeling,  (from  her 
deadly  weakness)  that  death  might  be  very  near, 
and  realizing  that  she  knew  little  or  nothing  of 
God  or  the  things  of  God,  she  listened  willingly  to 
the  kind  words  and  simple  instructions  of  Madame 
Martin,  and  at  last  consented  to  see  the  priest. 

Lot  Leslie  was  not  altogether  satisfied  ynth 
this  arrangement ;  but  he  was  very  fond  of  his 
wife,  and  very  grateful  to  the  Martins  for  all 
their  kindness  to  her. 

Therefore,  he  made  no  objections  when  the 
sick  woman  expressed  a  desire  to  be  baptized. 
As  he  could  not  bring  himself,  however,  to  go 
into  the  room  while  the  priest  was  there,  he  took 
hit  pipe  and  his  cap,  and  went  out  for  a  stroll  in 
'  the  streets,  until  "all  the  fuss"  (as  he  called  it) 
should  be  over. 

In  this  way,  he  came  to  pass  by  a  ma^ificent 
carriage  and  horses,  with  liveried  outriders,  that 
dashed  around  the  corner  ^w  he  tumfid  it,  and 
stopped  in  frdnt  of  a  big  house  near  by. 

Lot  wa«  too  full  of  his  own  thoughts  to  notice 
the  people  in  the  carriage. 


i.>^*..i-,wrai^''*.l 


MARIANNE  ST.   ANGE. 


66 


int,  believed 

ir's  wife  had 
stress  Leslie, 
light  of  God, 
ton  began  to 
ig,  (from  her 
)e  very  near, 
ir  nothing  of 
I  willingly  to 
IS  of  Madame 
the  priest, 
atisfied  with 
fond  of  his 
rtins  for  all 

as  when  the 
be  baptized, 
•wever,  to  go 
;here,  he  took 
for  a  stroll  in 
i  he  called  it) 

i.  magnificent 

utriders,  that 

burned  it,  and 

rby. 

^hts  to  notioe 


I 


Even  if  he  had  looked  at  the  elegant  gentle- 
man and  lady  who  got  out  of  the  carriage,  or  at 
the  neat  maid  who  followed  them,  carrying  a 
child,  he  would  hardly  have  known  the  beautiful, 
richly-dressed  baby  in  her  arms  to  be  his  own  lit- 
tle lost  Love  whom  he  had  never  seen  wearing 
anything  liner  than  a  gingham  dress  and  a  cot- 
ton cap. 

The  life  that  began  that  day  for  his  baby-girl 
was  like  the  life  of  a  little  princess  in  a  fairy- 
tale. Back  of  the  elegant  house  that  had  now 
become  her  home,  stretched  a  large,  lovely,  old 
garden,  radiant  with  beds  of  sweet-scented  flow- 
ers, and  cool  with  fountains  and  fish-ponds.  At 
the  end  of  its  winding  gravel-paths,  among  the 
swings  and  the  rustic  arbors,  stood  the  pretty 
playhouse  of  the  dead  Marianne. 

In  it,  was  all  that  a  child-heart  could  desire — a 
parlor,  dining-room  and  kitchen  on  the  first  floor : 
a  sitting-room  and  bedroom  on  Ihe  second.  Heal 
velvet  carpets  were  on  the  floors ;  real  lace  cur- 
tains at  the  glass  windows ;  while  every  French 
toy  that  could  please  a  baby  was  to  be  found  in 
tbiiwonderf  ul  little  house,  now  belonging  to  Love. 

Margot's  manied  siiter  was  brought  &U  Uie 
vn,f  ttdiai  QH6h66  to  bd  ^r  HxUM.  'C6\6tt6  Gftrd« 
./as  her  nam6.  She  was  a  y6tLi^  WiA6W,  Wltb 
CfA€  littld  girl,  vrhom  ihe  f«tehdd  with  hef  to 
Montreal. 


i 


66 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


F 


•  The  coming  of  Colette's  child  was  a  great  joy 
to  the  new  Marianne.  She  was  a  year  or  two 
older  than  Love,  and  was  called  Rose-Marie. 

All  day  long,  the  two  little  ones  were  out  with 
Colette  in  the  beautiful  garden,  playing  among 
the  flowers,  feeding  the  fish  in  the  ponds,  or  keep- 
ing house  beside  the  fountain,  beneath  the  waving 
grape-vines. 

When  they  tired  of  their  play,  or  when  the 
colder  days  began  to  come,  they  made  merry  in 
the  big,  warm,  sunny  nursery,  next  to  Madame 
St.  Ange's  rooms,  where  the  closets  were  over- 
flowing with  foreign  toys ;  and  Madame  always 
came  in  each  afternoon,  to  drink  a  cup  of  warm 
milk,  and  eat  a  bit  of  sweet  cake  with  the  chil- 
dren at  their  own  dainty  little  table,  sparkling 
with  silver,  glass,  and  French  china. 

Little  Love  soon  learned  to  bless  herself  prop- 
erly, and  say  her  baby-prayers.  She  had  her 
small  prayer-stool  beside  her  new  mamma's  in 
the  great  bed-chamber,  and  her  tiny  velvet  haa- 
sock  close  to  Madame's  easy  chair,  where  she  re- 
cited her  scraps  of  catechism  in  French,  and  lis- 
tened, in  time,  to  the  loveliest  stories  of  Blessed 
Lady  and  the  saints,  told  to  her  by  Madame,  each 
n%ht,  before  Colette  came  to  carry  her  off  to  bed 
in  the  adjoining  closet. 

On  Sundays  and  feast-days,  she  went  to  Mass 
with  her  parents  in  the  grand  family-ooaoh: 


;  i»..0iA'>A.>M  iA=lt  J*  !>i.ir.^'->j 


I  a  great  joy 
year  or  two 
e-Marie. 
rere  out  with 
lying  among 
»nds,  or  keep- 
h  the  waving 

or  when  the 
ade  merry  in 
to  Madame 
8  were  over- 
dame  always 
cup  of  warm 
ivith  the  chil- 
ble,  sparkling 

herself  prop- 
She  had  her 

mamma's  in 
ly  velvet  haa- 
where  she  re- 
ench,  and  lis- 
ies  of  Blessed 
Madame,  each 
her  off  to  bed 

went  to  Mass 
family-ooaoh: 


MARIANNE  8T.   ANOE. 


67 


gravely  crossed  herself  with  holy  water  at  the 
church-door  (as  the  others  did) ;  and  knelt  with 
little  Rose-Marie  in  front  of  the  magnificent, 
lighted  altars,  saying  her  beads  upon  a  little 
golden  rosary  that  her  papa  had  given  her  for 
her  own. 

All  this  time,  she  never  knew  that,  just  across 
the  street  from  her  elegant  home,  her  real  father 
and  mother  were  living  in  the  stable-room  of 
Jean  Martin,  the  baker. 

Every  morning.  Lot  Leslie  pushed  his  little 
bread-cart  to  Mr.  St.  Ange's  door,  and  handed 
out  the  warm,  white,  French  loaves  and  rolls  to 
Mr.  St.  Ange's  waiter-boy. 

He  brought,  in  this  way,  the  very  bread  to  the 
rich  merchant's  table,  yet  never  dreamed  that  his 
own  dear  little  daughter  was  feasting  on  it  in 
that  great  house,  as  its  most  cherished  child. 

Mistress  Leslie's  sickness  had  lasted  for  many 
months;  and  after  the  dreadful  fever  left  her, 
she  remained  so  weak  and  helpless,  that  her  mind 
and  memory  seemed  altogether  gone  from  her. 

She  would  sit  by  the  hour  with  her  thin  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  and  her  wild  eyes  staring 
blankly  at  a  spot  on  the  tiled  floor— saying  no 
word  to  either  husband  or  friends. 

This  state  of  things  went  on  for  more  than  a 
year. 

Poor  L<*t  had  given  up  all  hope  of  ever  seeing 


68 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


his  wife  a  strong  and  sensible  woman  again,  when, 
one  morning,  some  fifteen  months  after  her  meet- 
ing with  2i'-o-kum  and  her  fall  upon  the  street. 
Mistress  Leslie  began  to  speak  a  few  broken 
words,  and  show  signs  of  returning  memory. 

Her  husband  often  caught  her  muttering  to 
herself ;  and  the  words  she  jabbered  were  always 
the  same:  "Little  Love! — old  N'-o-kum! — sold 
my  baby  1 — big  house  across  the  street  I " 

Lot  began  to  study  over  these  words  (so  often 
repeated)  wondering  what  they  meant — wonder- 
ing if  they  had  anything  to  do  with  his  wife's 
fainting-fit,  more  than  a  year  before,  and  the  al- 
most fatal  illness  that  had  followed. 

Gradually,  as  the  poor  shattered  mind  of  the 
sick  woman  regained  its  balance,  she  began  to 
recall  the  past,  and  to  piece  together  the  last 
broken  threads  in  the  tragedy  of  her  life. 

After  a  weary  while,  she  was  able  to  tell  her 
patient  husband  all  she  had  seen  and  heard,  that 
August  day,  when  the  squaw,  N'-o-kum,  had 
given  up  their  ovrn  little  Love  to  the  merchant's 
maid  for  a  handful  of  silver  and  a  few  shining 
trinkets. 

The  painful  story  almost  cost  the  poor  woman 
a  relapse. 

Lot  Leslie,  as  he  listened  to  it,  began  to  doubt 
whether  the  things  she  spoke  of  had  really  aver 
happened,  or  whether  they  were  not  j'art  of  her 


again,  when, 
ter  her  meet- 
on  the  street, 
few  broken 
memory, 
muttering  to 
.  were  always 
D-kum  1 — sold 
eetl" 

jfds  (so  often 
mt — wonder- 
ith  his  wife's 
e,  and  the  al- 

1  mind  of  the 
she  began  to 
ither  the  last 
it  life. 

le  to  tell  her 
id  heard,  that 
!7'-o-kum,  had 
be  merchant's 
a  few  shining 

)  poor  woman 

egan  to  doubt 
ad  really  aver 
ot  j'art  of  her 


MAKIANKE  ST.  ANGE, 


C9 


mad  ravings— part  of  the  feverish  dreams  of  her 
long-wandering  mind. 

In  spite  of  hvaiself,  however,  he  took  to  watch- 
ing the  doors  and  windows  of  ihe  merchant's 
house.  The  blood  would  rush  to  his  head,  and 
his  heart  stand  still,  whenever  he  saw  a  lovely, 
little  familiar  face  looking  out  through  the  lace 
curtains,  or  the  graceful  form  of  a  richly-dressed 
child  upon  the  marble  steps. 

But,  sometimes,  there  were  ^m>o  pretty  little 
girls  going  out  from  the  great  house,  with  their 
stylish  white-capped  bonne. 

Then,  poor  Lot  would  sigh,  and  rush  back  into 
the  bake-shop,  sorely  puzzled  and  troubled. 

Who  is  he—the  slave  of  an  humble  baker— 
that  he  should  dare  to  claim  either  of  those 
elegantly-dressed  children  for  his  own:  or  pre- 
sume *«  question  their  nurse,  who  bore  herself 
with  such  a  grand,  proud  air  ? 

In  the  second  spring  of  her  captivity,  poor 
Mistress  Leslie  caught  a  heavy  cold  which,  (still 
weak,  as  she  was,  from  her  long  illness),  carried 
her  oflf  in  a  few  days. 

She  died  a  happy,  peaceful  desth,  receiving 
all  the  last  rites  of  the  Church,  and  lovingly 
waited  on  until  the  end  by  her  devoted  mistress. 
With  her  dying  breath,  she  repeated  the  story 
of  the  Indian  squaw's  having  sold  little  Love  to 
the  servant  of  the  rich  merchant;  and  urged 


»  I  a  HI  ihr'  ■  riiMimiaiiii-riiiriirirfmfnrfil'rath'r-^i 


70 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


upon  Lot  to  recover  the  child,  and  to  join  the 
true  Church,  which  makes  death  so  sweet  and 
welcome  a  guest  to  its  faithful  children. 

Thus,  patient  and  resigned  to  all  her  losses  and 
crosses,  kissing  the  crucifix  tenderly,  and  putting 
her  trust  firmly  in  Christ  and  His  Blessed 
Mother,  the  good,  suffering  woman  passed  peace- 
fully away  to  her  reward,  and  was  buried,  in 
due*  time,  in  the  nearest  Catholic  graveyard,  far 
away  from  her  early  home  and  friends. 

The  day  after  her  funeral,  when  poor  Lot  was 
sitting  alone,  sadly  enough,  in  the  bake-shop.  keep- 
ing watch  w^hile  his  master  was  at  supper,  a  strange 
man  with  a  squint  and  a  hair-lip  cme  into  the 
shop.  He  wanted  a  couple  of  buns  and  a  cup  of 
coffee  which  could  always  be  had  at  that  hour  at 
Jean  Martin's. 

The  stranger  talked  a  good  deal,  as  he  ate  and 
drank;  and  the  sound  of  his  tongue  was  homely 
and  sweet  to  Leslie's  ears. 
It  was  the  voice  of  a  brother  Yankee. 
He,  too,  recognized  a  countryman  in  poor 
Lot;  and,  as  they  chatted  freely  together,  it 
came  out  that  the  newcomer  was  an  agent  from 
the  New  England  colonies,  sent  out  to  find  and 
bring  back  all  the  captives  he  might  discover  in 
Canada. 

His  name  wad  Wheelwright.    In  spite  of  his 
sinister  looks,  he  seemed  to  be  a  genial,  pleasant- 


MARIANNE  ST.   ANGE. 


71 


to  join  the 
I  sweet  and 
en. 
er  losses  and 

and  putting 
His  Blessed 
)assed  peace- 
a  buried,  in 
aveyard,  far 
Is. 

toor  Lot  was 
e-shop,  keep- 
)er,  a  strange 
"Tie  into  the 
and  a  cup  of 
that  hour  at 

is  he  ate  and 
I  was  homely 

kee. 

lan  in  poor 
together,  it 
n  agent  from 
t  to  find  and 
tt  discover  in 

spite  of  his 
lial,  pleasant- 


mannered  man,  so  that  Lot  soon  told  him  his 
whole  sad  story. 

He  shed  tears  as  he  described  the  sickness  and 
death  of  his  wife ;  and  the  agent's  interest  in  the 
tale  increased,  as  Leslie  repeated  the  dead 
mother's  story  of  the  sale  of  her  baby  by  the 
Indians  to  the  rich  merchant,  Louis  St.  Ange. 

«*  Leave  this  matter  to  me,  friend  Leslie,"  said 
Wheelwright  with  a  grin,  at  the  end  of  their  talk. 
"  Strike  me  dead,  if  we  don't  soon  have  you  and 
your  little  gal  safe  on  the  way  to  the  Colonies. 
But,  mum's  the  word— for  here  comes  your  mas- 
ter, if  I  don't  mistake ! " 

Sure  enough,  there  was  Jean  Martin,  back 
from  his  supper,  a  short,  burly,  good-humored 
man,  whose  rosy,  smiling  face  bespoke  him  at 
peace  with  all  the  world. 

His  red  cheek  suddenly  paled,  however,  and  his 
good  humor  was  rather  rudely  disturbed,  when 
he  learned  the  agent's  business. 

He  was  much  attached  to  Lot ;  and  he  felt  that 
his  kindness  to  him  and  his  dead  wife  deserved 
some  practical  return. 

But  Wheelwright  was  wily  and  sweet-tongued. 
He  offered  so  large  a  ransom  for  the  Yankee 
slave,  that  the  baker  yielded  at  last,  and  con- 
sented to  let  Lot  go,  provided  he  agreed  to  wait 
a  day  or  two  until  a  man  could  be  gotten  to  take 
his  place.   ' 


I 


Mixj^mn^iJ'/'  ^^.IM&Wl^ltA^a^' 


ra 


Lot  Leslie's  folks. 


This  being  arranged  to  please  both  parties, 
Wheelwright  took  his  departure,  with  a  gly  wink 
and  a  parting  whisper  to  Lot : 

"  Courage,  man,  and  a  stiff  upper  lip  I  A  glass 
all  round — if  we  don't  soon  have  your  little  gal 
safe  out  of  the  clutches  of  these  French  papists ! " 

The  next  day,  the  head-gardener  at  Mr.  St. 
Ange's  had  a  new  man  to  help  him  trim  grape- 
vines and  set  out  some  spring  plants. 

One  of  the  under-gardeners  chanced  to  be  sick, 
and  in  his  place,  came  this  stranger  who  had  a 
squint  and  a  hare-lip,  but  whose  tialk  w^as  very 
pleasant  and  winning,  in  spite  of  its  Yankee 
twang. 

As  the  two  men  worked  among  the  arbors 
with  their  ladders  and  shears,  little  Love  and  her 
playmate,  Eose-Marie,  skipped  merrily  through 
the  garden  paths,  and  began  their  daily  game  of 
housekeeping  in  the  pretty  playhouse  beside  the 
fountain. 

Colette  Garde,  in  her  white  apron  and  cap,  sat 
knitting  on  the  stone  bench,  close  at  hand. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  keen-witted  man 
with  the  hare-lip  got  to  know  from  the  bonnets 
constant  calls  and  cautions  to  the  little  ones, 
which  was  her  own  child,  and  which,  the  adopted 
daughter  of  the  rich  merchant. 

Fortune  favored  the  plans  of  the  Yankee  agent. 


•^  ■l»^f«- 


both  parti«0, 
ith  a  sly  wink 

lip !  A  glass 
^our  little  gal 
inch  papists ! " 

er  at  Mr.  St. 
m  trim  grape- 

ced  to  be  sick, 
;er  who  had  a 
ialk  was  very 
at  its  Yankee 

ng  the  arbors 
)  Love  and  her 
irrily  through 
daily  game  of 
use  beside  the 

>n  and  cap,  sat 
at  hand, 
en-witted  man 
om  the  honne'g 
be  little  ones, 
:h,  the  adopted 

Yankee  agent. 


I 


MAKIANN£  8T.   ANGK. 


7d 


A  message  to  the  head-gardener,  from  some  of 
his  men,  took  him  away,  before  long,  to  a  distant 
{)art  of  the  large  garden. 

Wheelwright,  while  tying  up  one  of  the  vines 
to  its  trellis,  made  a  great  outcry  that  he  had 
found  a  bird's  nest  full  of  young  ones  on  top  of 
the  arbor. 

The  little  girls,  now  some  five  or  six  ^  o'd, 
ran  at  once  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  s.\J.  b^  ;:ed 
to  see  the  lovely  sight. 

The  agent  refused  to  let  little  Lev  >  u  )uni  the 
ladder;  but  helped  Rose-Marie  to  c.'i<  a  few 
rounds,  when  suddenly,  having  his  ba^k  to  Co- 
lette, he  tilted  the  ladder;  and  t  '•/>;  «'«  child 
fell  screaming  to  the  ground. 

It  was  not  a  bad  fall;  but  Colette  sprang, 
like  a  flash,  to  her  darling,  and  caught  her  up  in 
a  fright.  She  began  to  run  toward  the  great 
house,  kissing  and  soothing  Rose-Marie,  who  still 
sobbed  and  shrieked  from  the  pain  of  her  bruises. 
All  had  turned  out  as  Wheelright  had  guessed 
it  would. 

The  mother-love  in  the  heart  of  Colette  had 
made  her,  in  her  unexpected  moment  of  trial, 
forget  the  care  of.  her  foster-child. 

Little  Love  stood  alone  by  the  arbor,  pale  and 
trembling,  quite  at  the  mercy  of  this  dreadful 
stranger,  who  squinted  at  her  horribly,  and  had 
his  upper  Hp  slit  clean  up  to  his  nose. 


LOT   LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 

But  the  agent  made  the  best  of  his  golden  op- 
portunity. 

"  Poor  little  gal ! "  said  he  soothingly,  in  rather 
bad  French,  but  still  in  his  sweet-tongued  fash- 
ion :  '  Nurse  thinks  a  heap  more  of  Rose-Marie 
than  she  does  of  Marianne.  Strike  me  dead,  if 
mamma  would  treat  her  dear  little  gal  that 
way  1  She  was  at  the  garding-gate  as  I  came  in 
to-day.    Want  to  know  what  she  said  ?  " 

The  little  "gal"  shook  like  a  leaf— but  stood 
mute  as  a  lamb  before  its  8laugh*;erer. 

"  Why,  she  asked  me  to  fetch  you  to  her  in  an 
hour's  time.  What  for,  my  pretty  ?  What  else 
could  it  be  but  to.  take  you  out  for  a  ride  ?  Gra- 
cious me  ! "  he  cried,  looking  at  a  big  old  silver 
watch  that  he  drew  from  his  fob,  "  it's  just  the 
hour  now  !  Come  along,  dearie.  We  haven't  a 
minute  to  lose.  We'll  find  mamma  in  the  car- 
riage, right  outside  the  garding  gate  I " 

And  catching  up  his  hat  and  coat  from  the 
grass,  and  taking  little  Love  by  the  hand,  he 
hurried  the  frightened  child  through  the  open 
gate,  and  made  off  with  her  down  a  narrow,  back 
alley. 


lis  golden  op- 

igly,  in  rather 

bongued  fash- 

if  Rose-Marie 

e  me  dead,  if 

ttle  gal  that 

)  as  I  came  in 

lid?" 

af — but  stood 

er. 

u  to  her  in  an 

?    What  else 

a  ride  ?    Gra- 

big  old  silver 

,  "  it's  just  the 

We  haven't  a 

na  in  the  car- 

«1" 

soat  from  the 

the  hand,  he 

ugh  the  open 

I  narrow,  back 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THB  ATTACK  ON  THE  BLOCKH0U8B. 

When  we  last  saw  the  Indian  Princess  Sui- 
tara,  she  was  racing,  as  fast  as  her  fat  legs  would 
carry  her,  along  the  river  road  to  the  Wyandot 

village.  .,     t?  uu 

With  Catharine  Tarbuki  on  one  side,  Faith 
Leslie  on  the  other,  with  Prudence  and  Uttle 
Hope  bringing  up  the  rear,  the  Princess  and  her 
suite  Hed  before  the  approach  of  the  strange  sav- 
ages in  the  boats,  who,  for  all  they  knew  to  the 
contrary,  might  be  their  enemies,  the  dreaded 

Mohawks. 

As  all  ran  breathlessly  along,  Suitara  met  a 
young  Indian  coming  alone  from  a  bird-hunt, 
with  a  string  of  quaU  dangling  from  his  shoul- 

This  was  her  elder  brother,  Mescoh-KiniUo 
(or  the  Red  Snake).  . 

*^m»tess!  (my  elder  brother!)"  cnedshe: 
«  our  enemiee  are  coming  down  tho  river !  It  is 
too  late  to  return  to  the  castle  with  my  maids. 
We  go  now,  with  Catherine  Tarbuki  to  the  block- 
house  of  the  French  and  Wyandots." 

76 


I 


i 


■«^ 


76 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


"  What  is  that  to  me  ?"  asked  the  son  of  Pon- 
tiao,  with  a  scowl. 

"  It  is  everything  to  me  !  "  cried  the  Princess, 
Imughtily.  "  You  will  find  my  canoe  in  the  cove 
below  Suitara's  rock.  Take  it ;  row  quickly  to 
the  camp-fires  of  the  Ottawas,  and  rouse  the 
tribe  to  our  defence !  " 

"  Our  father,  the  great  Pontia-j,  is  away  with 
his  braves  at  Lake  George ! "  grunted  Red  Bnake, 
sis  he  tried  the  keen  edge  of  his  scalping-knife 
with  his  thick  thumb. 

"  But,  are  you  not  his  eldest  son  ?  "  urged  Sui- 
tara,  cunningly :  "  are  you  not  the  lion  of  the  Ot- 
tawas, the  star  of  the  council,  the  Red  Sn^^ke  of 
the  woods — fearless  and  venomous?  Summon,  I 
beg  of  you,  Wahitca  Mukmu  (the  White  Eagle) " 
— and  the  girl's  brown  cheek  flushed  darkly — 
"  summon  all  the  warriors  of  our  people,  and  bid 
them  sing  their  war-songs,  and  dance  their  war- 
dance,  for  the  daughter  of  their  great  chief  is  in 
danger.  You  and  White  Eagle  must  lead  them 
here,  at  once,  to  her  rescue.  Quethepeh,  Ni  steta, 
quethepeh!  (make  haste,  elder  brother,  make 
haste  I)" 

By  th«  time  the  girls  reached  the  Wyandot 
village,  All  it*  p6<^le  had  taken  r^ftige  hi  tike 
blookhotise  of  the  French  t«Ad«A^  ^r  IVeiitfh 
and  Indians  in  thdsd  days,  made  doiflinoa  d&use. 
The  blockhouse  was  very  big  and  strong.    It 


^p 


s  son  of  Pon- 

the  Princess, 
« in  the  cove 
•w  quickly  to 
id  roase  the 

is  away  with 
d  Red  Bnake, 
icalping-knife 

' "  urged  8ui- 
ion  of  the  Ot- 
Ked  Sni^ke  of 
Summon,  I 
^hite  Eagle)" 
hed  darkly — 
lople,  and  bid 
ice  their  war- 
eat  chief  is  in 
ost  lead  them 
vpehy  Ni  ate«», 
rother,  make 

the  Wyandot 
r^ftige  iii  tbe 
B,  ^r  ftenA 
ommon  d&use. 
id  strong.    It 


THE  ATTACK  ON  THE  BLOCKHOUSE.    77 

was  built  of  enormous  logs.  The  upper  story 
projected  over  the  lower,  so  that  the  garrison 
could  fire  with  ease  upon  any  attacking  party. 

The  roof  was  of  shingle,  and  therefore,  in  dan- 
ger from  the  fire  arrows  of  a  native  foe. 

But,  the  worst  peril  arose  from  the  site  of  the 
blockhouse.  On  one  side  of  it  was  a  small  lake 
(long  since  disappeared) ;  on  the  other,  the  De- 
troit river. 

Unfortunately,  the  bank  of  the  stream  rose,  at 
this  point,  in  a  high,  steep  ridge,  within  forty  feet 
of  the  blockhouse,  giving  a  natural  cover  to  en- 
emies assailing  it.  If  they  even  failed,  thus  pro- 
tected, on  the  riverside,  they  were  sure  of  a 
chance  on  the  bank  of  the  lake. 

Mary  Tarbuki,  the  mother  of  Catharine,  waited 
for  her  daughter,  and  the  other  maidens,  at  the 
door  of  the  fortress. 

She  was  a  small,  slender  woman,  not  much  past 
thirty,  of  singular  beauty,  and  of  such  gentle, 
quiet  ways,  that  the  tribe  called  her  "  Omi-mee, " 
or  the  Dove. 

A  worthy  mother,  was  she,  of  so  saintly  a 
maiden  as  Catharine  of  the  Wyandots. 

Tl^tix  home,  poor  as  it  was,  was  an  abode  of 
siuA  fncttf  parity,  and  simple  holiness,  that  Piti- 
deaM  fildllM,  tfaair  tlaim,  (albdit  she  retaiii«d  a 
godd  deal  of  the  bigotry  of  her  early  Pnritan 
associates),  regarded  her  mistresses  with  tender 


1 


0r*^^paim  ^  '•mM'mtfwn 


78 


LOT   LESLIE  8    FOLKS. 


m\ 


:|  i, 


i 


love  ar»d  reverence,  and  almost  began  to  think 
that  the  religion  which  made  such  saints  out  of 
savages  must  be  the  one  established  by  Christ 
Himself. 

She  now  watched  them  closely,  as  she  helped 
them  fill  the  water  buckets,  and  pass  them  up  to 
the  sentries  at  the  lookout  on  the  roof ;  and  her 
heart  grew  calm  and  full  of  trust  in  God,  as  she 
saw  Mary  and  Catharine  cross  themselves  quietly 
in  the  midst  of  the  work,  or  press  the  crucifix 
that  each  wore  upon  her  neck-chain,  lovingly  to 
their  lips. 

Both  mother  and  daughter  never  ceased  to 
cheer  the  young  white  girls,  who,  remembering 
Swan  Island,  clung  together,  pale  and  trembling. 
They  never  ceased  to  calm  the  poor,  fussy 
Princess  who  fretted  and  chafed  without  pause, 
constantly  running  to  the  long,  narrow  loop- 
holes, ostensibly,  to  see  if  Red  Snake  and  his 
warriors  were  approaching  to  the  rescue. 

The  girls  all  knew  that  she  was  watching  less 
for  her  brother,  than  for  Wabisca  Mukusti,  the 
half-breed. 

He  was  known  as  the  White  Eagle,  because  of 
his  fair  skin,  which  he  took  from  his  white  fa- 
ther; and  Suitara  had  promised  to  marry  him 
before  he  went  away,  that  autumn,  with  the  rest 
of  the  braves,  to  the  hunting-grounds  of  the 
Ottawas. 


igan  to  think 

saints  out  of 

led  by  Christ 

as  she  helped 
5S  them  up  to 
■oof ;  and  her 
n  God,  as  she 
selves  quietly 
s  the  crucifix 
n,  lovingly  to 

^er  ceased  to 
remembering 
nd  trembling. 
8  poor,  fussy 
ithout  pause, 
narrow  loop- 
nake  and  his 
escue. 

watching  less 
Mukusu,  the 

le,  because  of 
his  white  fa- 
o  marry  him 
with  the  rest 
mnds  of  the 


THE  ATTACK  ON  THE  BLOCKHOUSE. 


79 


She  hoped  that  White  Eagle's  courage  tHiA 
skill,  in  helping  her  brother,  on  this  occasion,  to 
rescue  her  from  the  siege  of  the  blockhouse, 
might  win  the  consent  of  the  great  Pontiac  to 
their  marriage.  He  had  all  along  refused  the 
hand  of  his  daughter  to  a  half-breed — having  an 
innate  scorn  for  the  whites. 

Meanwhile,  the  canoes  of  the  strange  Indians 
had  been  lost  sight  of  on  the  river.  With  the 
cunning  of  their  race,  they  had  guided  their 
boats  into  the  most  hidden  curves  and  thickly- 
wooded  windings  of  the  eastern  littoral,  so  that 
they  reached  at  last,  unobserved,  the  foot  of  the 
ridge,  facing  the  blockhouse. 

Their  chief  was  our  old  friend,  Haukimah: 
and  with  him,  in  the  leading  canoe,  were  Tim- 
othy Grindstone  and  little  Wilson  Leslie. 

It  was  not  the  custom  of  the  Caughnewagas  to 
take  with  them  to  battle  so  young  a  boy  as 
Wilson.  But,  apart  from  the  tribal  legend  that 
controlled  his  fate,  the  little  fellow  had  shown 
himself  so  brave,  so  sharp-witted,  so  manly — so 
worthy,  in  short,  of  the  dead  son,  whose  place  ho 
was  supposed  to  fill — that  the  chief  not  only 
dressed  him  as  a  warrior  at  an  age  when  other 
boys  of  his  years  were  running  about  the  camp 
naked,  but  carried  him  with  him  everywhere,  ab 
a  sort  of  mascot. 

Stealthily  crawling,  like  oats,  under  oover  of 


80 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


the  high,  bank,  the  Caughnewagas  drew  near,  in 
full  force,  to  the  blockhouse.  The  traders  and 
the  Wyandots  knew  nothing  of  their  approach, 
until  the  horrible  yell  of  their  enemies  burst  upon 
their  ears.  They  were  close  to  the  dry  ditch,  in 
front  of  the  fortress,  before  a  gun  was  fired  from 
the  upper-ramparts. 

Then,  Haukimah  and  his  men  dropped  into  the 
trench,  and  from  that  shelter,  fired  at  every 
loophole,  or  threw  burning  arrows,  or  fire-balls 
of  pitch  against  the  wooden  walls. 

Some  of  them  puUeu  down  a  small  outhouse, 
and  made  the  timbers  into  a  breast-work,  behind 
which  they  screened  themselves,  as  they  pushed 
forward  to  the  fight.  Others  crouched  behind 
the  steep  riv»>r-ridge,  and  fired  at  their  ease,  set- 
ting in  flames  the  wooden  roof  of  the  blockhouse. 

The  traders  rapidly  extinguished  the  red  blaze 
with  the  water  from  the  women's  buckets. 

The  horrid  outcries  of  the  attacking  savages, 
the  smoke,  the  rattle  of  guns,  and  the  constant 
leaping  up  in  various  quarters  of  long  tong  aoc  of 
fire—made  the  place  seem,  for  the  time,  a  hvi 
quarter  of  the  infernal  regions. 

Timothy  and  little  Willy  were  in  the  thick  of 
the  fight,  close  to  the  heels  of  Haukimah,  when 
the  bright  eyes  of  the  boy  discovered  a  big  com- 
pany of  Indians  sneaking  up  in  the  direction  of 
the  fort  from  the  woody  banks  of  the  lake. 


THE  ATTACK   ON  THE   BLOCKHOUSE. 


81 


drew  near,  in 
traders  and 
eir  approach, 
les  burst  upon 
)  dry  ditch,  in 
van  fired  from 

>pped  into  the 
red  at  every 
or  fire-balls 

lall  outhouse, 
work,  behind 
i  they  pushed 
)uched  behind 
their  ease,  set- 
be  blockhouse. 
1  the  red  blaze 
)uckets. 
eking  savages, 
the  constant 
>ng  tongaov  of 
le  time,  a  hcc 

n  the  thick  of 
ukimah,  when 
red  a  big  com- 
le  direction  of 
<he  lake. 


Bed  Snake  and  White  Eagle  were  bringing  on 
their  Ottawas  to  the  rescue  ! 

They  had  met  on  the  road  a  scouting-party 
from  their  own  camp,  and  now  led  them  forward 
to  the  blockhouse. 

An  immediate  rush  was  made  by  the  Caughne- 
wagas  against  the  plumed  and  painted  warriors 
of  Pontiac. 

Horrible  was  the  scene  of  slaughter  that  en- 
sued.   The  warring  savages  fought  like  demons ; 
and  every  once  in  a  while,  rang  out  on  the  shud- 
dering air,  the  long,  melancholy  shriek  of  the. 
scalp-yell. 

No  power  oovld  keep  Suitara  from  the  loop- 
holes. She  was  all  eyes  to  witness  the  fate  of 
her  tribesmen — all  anxiety  to  follow  the  move- 
ments of  White  Eagle  and  her  brother. 

At  last,  seeing  her  fair-haired  lover  fall  be- 
neath the  fierco  stroke  of  Haukimah's  axe,  she 
set  up  such  a  piercing  howl,  that  the  sound  drew 
upon  her  the  attention  of  one  of  the  Caughne- 
waga  archers.  He  immediately  let  tly  at  the 
loophole  the  poisoned  arrow  in  his  bow,  and 
poor  Suitara  fell  back  into  Faith  Leslie's  arms 
with  the  bloody  dart  quivering  in  her  bosoii. 

"  I  die,  N^e  miss,  I  die !  "  groaned  the  wrt  tche<l 
Princess,  stretching  out  her  hands  to  Catharine, 
who  flew  to  her  side,  catching  up  a  bowl  of 


I 


; 

II 


I  >.' 


;!i 


82 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


water  as  she  ran.    "  Ne  miss,  ne  goos  tow  /  {ei  der 
sister,  I  am  afraid  1) " 

"  Art  thou  sorry,  dear,  for  all  the  sins  of  thy 
life?"  v/hispered  the  angel  of  the  Wyandots, 
bending  her  lovely,  gentle  face  close  to  t'-.e  dark, 
troubled  visage  of  her  friend. 

"  Yes,  N'e  miss,  sorry  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart ! "  gasped  poor  Suitara. 

"Dost  thou  believe  in  God  the  lathar,  God 
the  Son,  God  the  Holy  Ghovt  ?  Thou  knowest 
aU  the  truths  of  the  Eoly  v^atholio  Church, 
Suitara,"  hurried  on  Catkarivia  as  she  saw  a 
strange,  awful  look  coming  intc,  tl:e  dying  girl's 
glazing  eyes:  "Doiit  tliou  firmly  believe  all 
those  truths  we  wore  taught  by  Sister  Ursula  at 
school?" 

"All— all,  JVe  ««..»/•'  gr<)\n  id  tLe  Princess, 
tightening  her  lold  vpos  her  friend's  hand,  as  if 
^he  would  fain  t^ike  her  with  her  down  the  dark, 
r.nk io\'n  pathway  she  iiad.  begun  to  tread — 
\\'luob  i(   ,  she  knew  not  whether. 

"  Theii,  wilt  thoQ  be  ba^Jtized  ?  "  asked  Cathar- 
ine, "  and  go  in  thine  innoceni*  to  heaven  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  heaven— to  heaven ! "  murmured  the 
Princess  faintly  ;  and,  while  the  sweet,  old  words 
of  her  childhood's  prayer  at  the  nunnery  came 
back  to  her  lips :  "  Jesm,  M<Mry  and  Jomph,  I 
give  you  nvy  hea/rt  and  my  gotU/** — Catharitie' 
poured  the  saving  waters  on  her  head,  saying 


THE  ATTACK  ON  THE  BLOCKHOUSE. 


83 


tow!  (eider 

I  sins  of  thy 

Wyandots, 

to  t'-.e  dark, 

>ttom  of  my 

latliar,  God 
iiou  knowest 
>lio  Church, 

she  saw  a 
I  dying  girl's 

believe  all 
ber  Ursula  at 

lie  Princess, 

's  hand,  as  if 

v<rn  the  dark, 

to  tread — 

£tked  Gathar- 
leaven  ?  " 
Lunuured  the 
)et,  old  words 
unnery  came 
nd  Jomphy  I 
"— €ftthariiie^ 
head,  saying 


distinctly,  "  I  baptize  thee,  Maria,  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  Amen ; "  shedding,  the  while,  silent  tears 
of  joy  to  know  that  her  best-loved  friend  was  at 
last  a  Christian. 

Then,  the  poison  mounting  to  her  brain,  Sui- 
tara  began  to  rave — to  chant  softly  to  herself  a 
measure  from  the  song  she  had  sunj-  her  hand- 
maidens, that  day,  upon  the  cliff : 

"  •  I  come,  my  fair-haired  chieftain ! 
My  spirit  love ! '  she  sang : 
•  I  come,  my  own  true-hearted  I ' " 

And,  verily, 

•<  Ere  lip  and  sound  had  parted," 

the  hapless  daughter  of  Pontiac,  now  swollen  to 
an  enormous,  purple  mass,  straightened  herself 
upon  the  breast  of  her  friend,  and  slept  in  th^ 
peace  of  the  Lord. 

As  Catharine  closed  the  ht-avy  lids  over  the 
blank,  staring  eyes,  and  laid  the  crucifix  upon 
the  cold,  ashen  lips — a  wild  shout  from  the  ouiof 
world  of  war,  told  that  the  Ottawas  had  con- 
quered, that  the  attack  on  the  blookho"se  was 
joyfully  at  an  end. 

Caught,  as  in  a  death-trap,  betweei  e  fierce 
fire  of  the  fortress,  and  the  arrows  ^  axes  of 
the  Ottawas,  the  unfortunate  Caughn  ^agas  fell 
before  their  foes,  like  a  field  of  ripe  orn  before 
tbo  hail  and  wind  of  an  autumnal  1     '•ioane. 


I 


84 


LOT   LE8LIP:'8   FOLKS. 


Haukimah  and  a  small  remnant  of  his  braves 
alone  survived,  with  Timothy  and  little  Wilson, 
who  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life  among  that 
whirlwind  of  whistling  arrows  and  bullets. 

Prudence  Skillet,  glad  to  escape  from  the  sight 
of  the  swollen,  purple  corpse  upon  the  floor, 
turned  to  one  of  the  loopholes,  and  looking  out, 
saw  Haukimah  pursued  by  Red  Snake,  over  the 
heaps  of  dead  and  dying  Indians,  while  Grind- 
stone and  the  boy  bravely  followed  in  defence  of 
their  chief. 

"  Look ! "  said  she  to  Faith  and  Hope  Leslie, 
who  clung  close  to  her,  weeping  over  Suitara's 
death :  "  look  at  the  size  of  that  little  imp,  and 
th(^  outlandish  way  he  is  tossed  oflfl  He's  as 
whice  as  ourselves,  too;  and  so  is  the  fellow  be- 
.de  him,  with  the  ring  in  his  nose,  and  a  tuft  on 
his  head,  for  all  the  world  like  a  red-headed 
woodpecker ! " 

"  They  are  fairer  than  White  Eagle  himself ! " 
whispered  Faitli  with  a  shudder,  as  she  thought 
of  their  dead  mistress  and  her  slain  lover. 

«*  There !  the  big  chief's  down ! "  cried  Prudence 
from  her  loophole,  as  Haukimah  fell  under  the 
tomahawk  of  Red  Snake,  who  stopped,  with  a 
hideous  yell,  to  scalp  his  victim. 

The    Yankee    woman    turned    sick,    as   she 
groaned: 
"  Oh !  that,  brute  of  an  Ottawa !    His  bands 


:i  1 


of  his  braves 
little  Wilson, 
e  among  that 
bullets, 
rom  the  sight 
on  the  floor, 
I  looking  out, 
lake,  over  the 
while  Grind- 
in  defence  of 

Hope  Leslie, 
over  Suitara's 
ittle  imp,  and 
offl  He's  as 
the  fellow  bo- 
and  a  tuft  on 
a  red-headed 

igle  himself ! " 
IS  she  thought 
I  lover. 

sried  Prudence 
fell  under  the 
opped,  with  a 

sick,    as   she 

1,!    His  hands 


TIIK   ATTACK   ON  THE  BLOCKHOUSli.         85 

are  red  with  blood  1  He's  off  a^ain,  now,  after 
the  white  Injin  and  his  little  boy  1  Down  on 
youf  knees,  children,  and  pray  that  the  poor 
creeturs  may  'scape  him ! " 

This  rccoui-se  to  heaven  for  help,  she  had 
learned  from  the  devout  example  of  Mary  and 
Catharine;  and,  while  the  fervent  petition  of  the 
gentle,  kneeling  little  girls  rose  up  like  sweetest 
incense  to  the  throne  of  God,  Red  Snake  was 
gaining  upon  the  tracks  of  their  young  brother 
and  the  good  Grindstone.  The  latter  was 
making  for  the  river-bank  as  fast  as  he  could 
run.  There,  he  hoped  to  leap  down  the  cliff  into 
one  of  the  empty  canoes  of  the  dead  Caughne- 
wagas,  which  he  knew  to  be  r    1  n^g  below. 

He  drove  Willy  before  him,  as  he  raced  for  his 
life ;  but  alas !  Fed  Snake  was  one  of  the  fleetest 
runners  of  his  tribe. 

Just  at  the  brink  of  the  river,  he  overtook  the 
two  whites.  Willy  had  stumbled  over  a  big 
stone,  and  falling/ tripped  up  Timothy,  whose 
pace  was  too  rapid  to  resist  the  sudden  obstacle. 

Gladly,  did  the  devoted  serving-man  seek  to 
defend  the  child,  with  his  own  body,  from  the 
downward  stroke  of  the  Ottawa's  knife.  Al- 
though he  turned  the  blow  aside  from  the  boy's 
heart,  he  could  not  keep  it  from  making  a  deep 
gash  in  Willy's  arm. 

At  the  sight  of  the  fast-flowing  blood,  Grind- 


I 


s.; 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


ji' 


stoue  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  rushed  upon  Red 
Snake  with  the  strength  of  an  angry  lion  when 
it§  whelp  is  attacked. 

The  Yankee  was  a  larger  and  more  powerful 
man  than  the  Indian.  Clutching  him  by  the 
throat,  he  forced  him,  step  by  step,  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  cliff.  But,  just  as  he  managed,  with 
a  supreme  effort,  to  hurl  the  son  of  Pontiac  over 
the  rocks  into  the  river,  the  ground  crumbled  be- 
neath his  own  feet,  and  he  and  Willy  dropped  to- 
gether through  the  cavity. 

Not  a  moment  too  soon,  either ;  for  a  number 
of  Ottawas  seeing,  from  afar  off,  the  peril  of  their 
young  chief,  were  already  running  to  the  rescue 
shrieking  wildly,  their  uplifted  hatchets  flashing 
in  the  red  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

Beholding  the  three  figures  disappear  suddenly 
and  simultaneously,  however,  from  the  brink  of 
the  river,  they  concluded  all  had  gone  down  to- 
gether to  a  watery  grave;  and,  with  the  cool 
philosophy  of  their  race,  they  stopped  to  kill 
taad  scalp  the  few  Caughnewagas  remaining 
i:dlive'«pon  the  field. 

The  spur  of  rock,  on  which  Grindstone  and 
the  boy  landed  in  their  fall,  chanced  to  be  the 
rMervoir  whereinto  the  squaws  of  the  Wyandot 
village  had  been  wont,  for  years,  to  cast  down 
all  the  sweepings  of  their  huts.  It  was  covered 
iq  the  d^th  of  several  feet,  with  a  mass  of  old 


THE   ATTACK   ON   THE  BLOCKIIOISE. 


8T 


id  upon  Red 
ly  lion  when 

ore  powerful 
him  by  the 
I,  to  the  very 
anaged,  with 
Pontiac  over 
crumbled  be- 
y  dropped  to- 

f  or  a  number 

peril  of  their 

to  the  rescue 

3hets  flashing 

pear  suddenly 
the  brink  of 
fone  down  to- 
vith  the  cool 
opped  to  kill 
as  remaining 

'indstone  and 
ced  to  be  the 
the  Wyandot 
to  cast  down 
t  was  covered 
a  mass  of  old 


mats,  greasy  rags,  and  heaps  of  straw,  hay,  and 
dead  leaves. 

No  bed  of  silken  pillows,  therefore,  could  have 
been  softer  than  this  padded  rock  to  the  bruised 
man  and  bleeding  boy  who  had  fallen  thereon. 

Better  still,  it  was  only  a  foot  or  two  above 
the  surface  of  the  river,  where  Grindstone  was 
surprised  to  see  a  solitary  canoe  rocking,  as  if 
waiting  to  take  them  off. 

There  was  only  one  man  in  the  boat,  and  he  (O 
joy !)  was  a  white  man  1  But  not  like  any  other 
white  man  Timothy  had  ever  seen.  He  was  very 
t8.11  and  slender,  and  in  the  prime  of  life.  He 
had  a  strongly-marked,  merry  face ;  and  he  wore 
a  strange  dress,  and  a  queer  cap  of  black  fustian 
on  his  head.  His  long  black  gown  fell  in  loose 
folds  to  his  feet,  drawn  close  at  the  waist  by  a 
leatheioi  belt.  In  this  belt,  was  stuck  a  big,  brass 
cross  with  a  figure  of  the  Redeemer  on  it ;  and 
a  string  of  wooden  beads,  with  brass  medals  fast- 
ened to  them,  hung  down  at  his  side. 

In  spite  of  aU  these  queer  things,  nevertheless, 
there  was  something  in  the  stranger's  face  that 
made  Tiiaothy  put  trust  in  him. 

He  beckoned  him  to  push  his  boat  closer ;  and, 
when  the  strange  man  had  reached  the  foot  of  a 
sort  of  natural  staircase  in  the  rocks,  of  which 
the  ledge  where  Grindstone  now  stood  formed 
almost  the  last  step,  the  Yankee  leaned  over,  and 


m 


LOT  lkslie's  folks. 


softly  begged  him  to  come  up,  and  help  him  lift 
the  wounded  boy  into  the  boat. 

The  stranger  answered  him  in  English,  with  a 
strong  F  rench  accent ;  and,  making  fast  the  canoe 
to  an  iron  ring  in  the  rocks,  climbed  up  to  Wil- 
ly's side. 

The  poor  child  had  fainted  from  loss  of  blood, 
and  lay  upon  the  ground,  the  image  of  death. 

While  the  man  in  the  black  gown,  kneeling  be- 
side him,  tore  up  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
quickly  and  skilfully  bound  up  the  boy's  wounded 
arm,  he  questioned  Timothy  as  to  the  fight  at 
the  blockhouse,  and  all  the  doings  of  that  day 
at  the  Wyandot  village. 

He  had  heard  the  noise  of  guns,  he  said,  as  he 
rowed  down  the  river ;  and  was  just  making  for 
the  bank,  when  the  body  of  Red  Snake  came 
flying  from  the  rocks  above. 

"  I  would  have  begged  the  honor  of  his  ac- 
quaintance," said  the  stranger,  brokenly,  and 
with  a  funny  smile  that  set  his  black  eyes  to 
sparkling;  "but  he  gave  me  no  opportunity. 
He  had  no  sooner  touched  the  water,  than  he 
swam  away,  like  a  fish,  to  yonder  point,  where 
he  disappeared." 

"  Then,  he  escaped  after  all  ?  "  muttered  Timo- 
thy, staring  grimly  and  ruefully  at  the  spot  in- 
dicated, where  the  brushwood  grew  thickly 
down  to  the  water's  edge. 


THE  ATTACK   ON   THE  BLOCKHOISE. 


89 


lelp  him  lift 

glish,  with  a 
Eist  the  canoe 
sd  up  to  Wil- 

oss  of  blooil, 
of  death, 
kneeling  be- 
[erchief,  and 
)y'8  wounded 
the  fight  at 
of  that  day 

he  said,  as  he 

at  making  for 

Snake  came 

or  of  his  ao- 
rokenly,  and 
black  eyes  to 

opportunity, 
ater,  than  he 

point,  where 

uttered  Timo- 
b  the  spot  in- 
prew   thickly 


"It  is  possible,"  said  the  stranger,  politely, 
''some  of  these  natives— ctVi /  but  they  are 
sometimes  hard  to  kill ! " 

"  This  one  seems  to  have  nine  lives,  like  a  cat," 
growled  Timothy ;  and  then  as  Willy  began  to 
show  some  signs  of  reviving  strength,  he  found 
himself  telling  this  kind  stranger  not  only  all 
the  events  of  the  day,  but  the  whole  history  of 
his  adventures  with  the  boy  since  the  hour  of 
their  capture  at  Swan  Island. 

"Thank  the  good  God  for  all  His  mercies!" 
said  the  stranger,  rising  to  his  feet  and  crossing 
himself,  while  he  lifted  his  queer  cap  from  his 
head,  and  looked  up  with  a  beautiful  smile  to 
heaven. 

"Are  you  the  parson  of  these  parts,  sir?" 
asked  Timothy,  as  the  gentleman,  having  brought 
some  water  from  the  river  in  a  deep  shell,  poured 
into  it  a  little  cordial  from  a  pocket-flask,  which 
he  gave  to  Willy,  now  sitting  up,  and  looking 
very  white  and  weak. 

"  Not  the  parson,"  returned  the  other,  with  a 
pleasant  smile,  "  but  one  of  the  priests— Father 
Peter,  at  your  service,  from  the  Jesuit  mission 
«p  the  river." 

"Oh!"  said  Timothy— surprise  and  dismay 
manifest  in  his  round  eyes  and  dropped  jaw. 

"  The  dew  begins  to  fall,"  went  on  the  rever- 
end gentleman,  composedly :  "  and  our  little  boy 


I^B^IB-^Mi^i^^^^ 


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WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MSSO 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microraproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductlons  hittorlquas 


•^ 


90 


LOT  LESLIE  S   FOLKS. 


looks  as  if  he  needed  better  attention  than  I  can 
give  him  here." 

"  You're  right  there,  sir,"  agreed  the  Yankee, 
recovering  himself:  "  and  "—looking  anxiously 
around  at  the  brushwood  ambush—"  that  pesky 
redskin  may  come  at  us,  agin,  at  any  minute." 

"  Have  no  fears,"  said  the  priest.  "  Only  help 
me  to  get  the  boy  down  into  my  boat,  and  I'll 
row  you  both  up  to  the  mission.  There,  you  can 
have  rest  and  food,  and  the  child  will  soon  be 
healed  of  his  wound  by  our  good  Brother  Borgia '' 

«<  Oh ! "  said  Timothy  again ;  and  as  he  depci- 
ited  Willy  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  the  child 
dreamily  heard  him  muttering :  "  Jiminy-jinks ! 
this  may  turn  out  to  be  worse  than  being  a 
Gaughnewaga ! " 


iian  I  can 

i  Yankee, 
anxiously 
hat  pesky 
linute." 
[)nly  help 
t,  and  ru 
e,  you  can 
I  soon  be 
r  Borgia '' 
he  depoa- 
the  child 
iny-jinks  I 
L  being  a 


CHAPTEB  Vin. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THBEE  BIVEB8. 

Long  and  loud  were  the  cries  of  Uttle  Love 
Leslie,  and  bitter  were  her  tears,  when  the  Yan- 
kee agent  hurried  her  away  from  her  beautiful 
home,  only  to  find  that  neither  her  mamma  nor 
the  carriage  were  waiting  for  her  in  the  narrow, 
back  alley.    She  would  have  gone  on  making 
such  an  uproar  as  to  bring  to  their  doors  the 
poor  dwellers  in  those  squalid  huts,  and  who,  at 
that  hour,  were  all  busy  with  the  boUing  of  their 
onion  soups,  had  not  Wheelwright  turned  on  her 
the  fiercest  of  faces,  and  growUng  like  aivolf, 
threatened,  if  she  made  another  sound,  to  whip 
her  within  an  inch  of  her  life. 

She  was  a  brave  little  creature,  as  well  a» 
clever,  and  although  the  man's  dreadful  squint 
and  forbidding  hare-lip  filled  her  with  terror,  she 
saw  clearly  that  she  must  control  herself. 

Allowing  him  to  wrap  her  from  head  to  foot 
in  an  old  black  cape  that  had  once  (although  she 
knew  it  not)  belonged  to  her  own  mother,  she 
choked  back  her  sobs,  as  he  led  her,  at  hist,  to  » 
shabby,  olose^wvered  wagon  on  runners— for  th© 
spring  snow  was  still  upon  the  country  roads- 
si 


*!»■ 


92 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


and  which,  with  its  strong  team  of  native  ponies, 
waited  for  them  at  the  end  of  the  lane. 

Into  this,  he  had  no  sooner  lifted  her,  than  she 
was  caught  in  the  arms  of  a  man  sitting  well  back 
in  the  inner  darkness,  who  squeezed  her  wildly 
to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her  pretty  face  again  and 

again. 

The  child  struggled  dumbly  in  her  fright,  and 
tried  hard  to  get  away  from  him,  but  he  only 
pressed  her  the  closer,  and  kept  groaning,  bro- 
kenly :  "  My  child  1  my  baby !  my  own  motherless 

little  Love  1 " 

"  I'm  mt  your  child  1 "  said  the  Uttle  one  stoutly, 
in  excellent  French.    "  My  name  is  Marianne  St. 
Ange,  and  I  have  a  papa  of  my  own,  and  a  dear, 
sweet,  beautiful  mamma  in  the  big  house  at 
home !—    Oh  1  please,  I  want  to  go  home  to  them 
right  awayl"  she  cried,  bursting  afresh  into 
tears;  for,  as  her  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the 
dim  light  in  the  wagon,  she  saw  that  the  man  who 
claimed  her  so  positively  as  his  child  was  a  poor, 
forlorn-looking  creature,  in  patched  clothes  that 
smelled  strongly  of  garlic  and  stale  tobacco  smoke. 

Lot  was  not  prepared  to  find  her  the  spoiled, 
saucy  darling  she  was.  Her  new  life  at  the  St. 
Anges'  had  made  her  very  dainty  in  her  tastes 
and  ways.  More  than  that,  it  had  driven  from 
her  mind  all  recollection  of  he.-  old  island  home, 
of  her  lost  parents  and  relations. 


|ve  ponies, 

than  she 
well  back 
\&p  wildly 
again  and 

right,  and 
at  he  only 
ming,  bro- 
motherless 


)ne  stoutly, 
manne  St. 
ind  a  dear, 
;  house  at 
ne  to  them 
liresh  into 
aed  to  the 
te  man  who 
was  a  poor, 
ilothes  that 
icco  smoke, 
ihe  spoiled, 
>  at  the  St. 
her  tastes 
riven  from 
land  home, 


WHAT   HAPPENED  AT  THREE   RIVERS. 


93 


No  natural  affection,  no  instinct  of  blood,  now 
stirred  in  her  breast  at  the  tears  and  caresses  of 
her  poor,  disappointed  father. 

His  sentimental  emotion,  coupled  with  the 
proud  indifference  of  the  midget,  seemed  to  irri- 
tate Wheelwright  beyond  control. 

"  Don't  set  snivellin'  there ! "  he  snarled  to  Lot, 
as  he  jumped  into  the  wagon  :  "  but  wrap  the  brat 
in  a  blanket,  and  lay  her  down  among  the  straw. 
A  lusty  specimen,  she  is !  Drat  her  I  give  me  the 
lines ! " — and  with  a  smart  crack  of  the  whip,  the 
Canadian  ponies  pricked  up  their  ears,  shook 
their  rough  manes,  and  trotted  away  with  their 
burden  up  the  road  by  the  St.  Lawrence  river. 

It  was  a  long  and  weary  journey  to  the  town 
of  Three  Rivers.  There,  several  other  New  Eng- 
land captives,  whom  the  Yankee  agent  had  either 
bought  or  stolen  from  their  French  masters,  were 
waiting  for  him  to  convey  them  home  to  the  col- 
onies. 

Several  times,  he  halted  by  the  way  to  refresh 
his  horses,  and  buy  food  for  the  party,  as  well  as 
*'  sweeties  "  and  toys  for  the  little  girl. 

With  these,  he  coaxed  her  along,  telling  her 
that  a  relation  of  her  French  father  lived  at 
Three  Rivers ;  and  that,  after  spending  a  few 
days  with  his  children,  she  should  be  brought 
safely  back  to  her  home  in  Montreal. 
'  Having  been  fooled  by  him  once  before,  little 


94 


LOT   LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


Love  did  not  put  much  faith  in  Wheelwright's 
statements  or  promises,  but  hard  luck,  and  vary- 
ing experiences  bad  sharpened  her  wits,  and  made 
her  precociously  politic. 

She  had  now  sense  enough  to  keep  quiet  in  try- 
ing circumstances,  nursing  her  dolls  and  eating 
her  candy,  while  she  cuddled  close  to  Leslie's 
side,  with  the  innate  feeling,  poor  child  1  that  he 
was  kinder,  and  more  to  be  trusted  than  the 
agent. 

On  the  road.  Wheelwright  heard  of  one  or 
two  other  captives,  along  the  St.  Lawrence,  whom 
he  concluded  to  ransom  or  rescue  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

Accordingly,  wheu  the  big  inn  at  Three  Rivers 
was  reached  at  last,  he  left  Lot  and  his  little 
daughter  in  the  care  of  the  innkeeper  and  his 
wife,  and  hurried  back,  the  next  day,  to  the  de- 
liverance of  the  other  white  slaves. 

The  inn,  Vagneau  d'or  (or  the  Golden  Lamb), 
was  very  full,  just  then,  of  traders  and  released 
captives. 

As  the  latter  were  poor  and  unable  to  pay  for 
their  keep,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  place  to  give 
them  work  in  the  kitchen,  or  around  the  stables, 
so  that  they  might  not  eat  their  bread  in  idleness 
— until  such  time  as  Wheelwright  sfaoidd  return 
to  carry  them  off  to  New  England. 
Thus  it  fell  out,  that  Lot  LesUe,  on  hi«  arrival 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THREE  RIVERS. 


95 


elwrighfs 
and  vary- 
andmade 

aiet  in  try- 
i,nd  eating 
bo  Leslie's 
i  I  that  he 
than  the 

of  one  or 
nee,  whom 
quickly  as 

uree  Rivera 
1  his  little 
er  and  his 
,  to  the  de- 

len  Lamb), 
nd  released 

)  to  pay  for 
lace  to  give 
the  stables, 
I  in  idleness 
oidd  return 

1  his  arrrral 


at  the  Golden  Lamb,  was  set  to  choppmg  wood 
and  fetching  water  for  the  kitchen  wenches ;  and, 
as  little  Love  soon  discovered  that  the  horrid  man 
with  the  hare-Up  had  again  told  her  a  Ue,  and 
that  the  innkeeper  (if  he  were  indeed  a  cousin  of 
her  French  father— which  she  already  doubted—), 
had  certainly  no  Uttle  children  for  her  to  play 
with,  the  smaU  maid  was  left  very  much  to  her- 
self and  her  own  devices. 

A  favorite  fairy-tale  she  had  heard,  long  ago, 
at  bedtime,  from  Nuree  Colette,  often  came  to 
her  mind,  as  she  sat  on  the  sunny  step  of  the 
inn,  rocking  her  doll  upon  her  knee. 

It  was  the  story  of  a  little  prinjess,  who  was 
once  stolen  from  her  father's  palace,  and  carried 
off  by  bad  fairies  to  an  ogre's  castle.  But,  the 
castle  gate  being  left  conveniently  open,  one 
morning,  the  little  princess  escaped  from  the  gar- 
den (where  she  was  bemg  fattened  into  a  deUcious 
tid-bit  for  the  ogre's  table),  and  made  her  way 
into  the  public  road. 

She  walked  a  long,  long  whUe  in  the  dust  and 
beat  of  a  summer's  day,  ready  to  faint  with  fa- 
tigue and  fright;  but,  after  awhile,  a  golden 
chariot  drawn  by  milk-white  horses,  came  rolUng 
toward  her,  along  the  road.  "        ^ 

It  stopped  close  to  the  Uttle  runaway,  and  the 
door  was  opened  by  a  fairy  footman  in  a  Uv«ry 
of  pale  blue  and  silver  lace.   Out,  popped  a  lovely 


mm 


^ 


•6 


LOT   LESLIE'S   TOLKS. 


little  lady  in  a  trailing  cloak  of  whitest  minever, 
over  a  royal  purple  brocade,  sparkling  with  dia- 

monds. 

A  crown  of  gold  and  brilliants  was  on  her 
charming  head,  and  a  silver  wand  in  her  tiny, 
white-gloved  hand. 

This  was  the  princess's  fairy  godmother. 

She  had  been  on  a  visit  to  Queen  Mab  at  the 
time  of  her  godchild's  abduction,  and  was  only 
now  returning  after  a  delightful  sojourn  at  the 

court. 

She  touched  the  runaway  with  her  wand;  and 
at  once,  her  dusty  rags  were  changed  into  a  robe 
of  rose-pink  satin,  covered  with  jewels ;  her  coarse 
shoes  became  pink  velvet  slippers  studded  with 
pearls;  and  the  fairy  godmother,  whirling  her 
into  the  shining  coach,  drove  her  back,  splendid 
and  triumphant,  to  her  father's  palace,  where  she 
lived  ever  afterward  in  peace  and  plenty,  while 
the  ogre  died  unhappy  and  hungry. 

A  bright  thought  came  suddenly  to  little  Love, 
sitting  alone  upon  the  sunny  doorstep. 

«  Why  couldn't  /run  away  like  Pri/n^ceM  Bdls- 
hdUf'  mused  she:  "why  couldn't  I  find  my 
way  back,  like  he»,  to  my  own  dear  home  ?  " 

Every  one  was  busy  in  the  inn,  and  around  it. 
Lot  Leslie  had  just  turned  the  corner  6f  the  path 
fr6m  the  great  old  well,  carrying  his  buckets  6f 
water  to  the  back  kitchen.    No  human  eye  was 


WHAT  HAPPENED   AT  THREE   RIVERS.       97 


it  minever, 
with  dio- 

'as  on  her 
her  tiny, 

ther. 

Mab  at  the 
i  was  only 
inm  at  the 

wand ;  and 
into  a  robe 
her  coarse 
added  with 
hirling  her 
sk,  splendid 
3,  where  she 
ienty,  while 

>  little  Love, 

ep. 

m4ie«»  BdU- 

I  find  my 
lome?" 
&  around  it. 

df  the  path 
s  buckets  6f 
lan  eye  was 


watching  tiie  little  fearless  girl.  She  drew  closer 
the  old  black  cape  on  her  shoulders,  tied  tighter 
the  strings  of  her  garden  hat,  and  trotted  off 
alone  down  the  road. 

The  Princest  Belle-belle  had  started  again  upon 
her  travels.  But,  instead  of  the  old-time  fairy 
godmother  in  ermine  and  jeweled  brocade,  a 
very  different  sort  of  deliverer  was,  that  mo- 
ment, driving  to  meet  the  runaway. 

It  was  a  bright,  spring  day. 

There  was  still  some  snow  on  the  roads,  and 
in  the  shady  spots;  but  the  sun  shone  gloriously, 
and  a  soft  wind  was  blowing  from  the  south. 
The  trees  showed  a  faint  hint  of  green;  and, 
here  and  there,  a  stray  bird  twittered  among  the 
branches. 

Little  Love  trudged  bravely  along,  humming 
to  herself  brokenly,  in  baby  fashion,  some  verses 
of  an  old  French  cantiqtie  to  Mary,  Queen  of 
Heaven,  which  may  be  rendered  thus  in  English : 

-  Blessed  are  we,  .he  children  of  a  Mother 
Who,  in  her  grace  surpasses  all ; 
Hasten,  then  haste,  with  gladness  to  her  altar  i 
There,  at  her  feet,  in  meekness,  fitlL 

.    .  .  «  Slowly  the  winter  faded  fjrtmi  die  mpMtain, 
Leaving  the  streans  atl  chainless,  free : 
Bnds  of  the  meadows,  waters  of  the  fonnli/n. 
All  are  waking,  Mother,  to  thee  I" 


98 


LOT   LESLIE'S   FOtKS. 


The  child  had  just  begun  to  sing  the  last 
stanza : 

"  We,  too,  will  praise  thee,  sweet  and  sUinleu  Mother, 
We  will  unite  with  flow'r  and  bird, 
And,  round  thine  altar :  thro"  all  the  sacred  seasons, 
Shall  Uys  of  thy  glory  be  heard!" 

when,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder,  to  make 
sure  of  her  safety,  she  beheld  Lot  Leslie  come  to 
the  inn  door,  and,  with  one  swift,  wild  glance 
about  him,  plunge  madly  after  her  down  the 

road. 

little  Love  crossed  herself  devoutly  (as  she 
had  been  taught  by  Madame  to  do,  in  moments 
of  danger),  and  broke  into  a  frightened  run. 

She  saw  a  dark  vehicle  coming  rapidly  towards 
her  from  the  other  direction. 

Could  it  be  the  chariot  of  the  fairy  god- 
mother? Would  the  lovely  little  lady  descend 
from  it,  in  her  furs  and  jewels,  and  touch  her 
with  her  silvery  wand  ? 

Alaal  as  the  vehicle  drew  nearer,  she  saw  it 
was  only  a  shabby  sleigh. 

In  it,  was  an  ugly  old  squaw,  driven  by  a 
young  Indian  sanop,  who  whooped  loudly  as  he 
discovered  Lot  making  chase  for  his  little  daugh- 
ter, who  was  striving  with  all  her  speed  to  escape 

him. 
Quick  as  lightning,  th9  old  squaw  leaned  over 


'  'WM 


the  last 


iMother, 
aaont, 


r,  to  make 
ie  come  to 
ild  glance 
down  the 

fcly  (as  she 
n  moments 
id  run. 
lly  towards 

fairy  god- 

dy  descend 

touch  her 

she  saw  it 

iven  by  a 
Dudly  as  he 
ttle  daugh- 
d  to  escape 

leaned  over 


WHAT  JIAPI'KNED   AT  THREE  RIVERS. 


00 


the  side  of  the  sleigh,  caught  Love  from  the 
ground  to  a  seat  beside  her,  and  cried  out  to 
the  young  Indian  to  turn  his  horse  about,  and 
drive  like  the  wind. 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  the  savages 
were  dashing  along  the  road  to  Quebec,  bearing 
the  white  child  far  away  from  her  distracted 
father. 

Old  N'-o-kum  (for  it  was  she)  was  well  aware 
of  the  value  of  her  prize. 

She  knew  the  little  girl  to  be  the  adopted 
daughter  of  the  great  merchant;  and  she  was 
sure  Louis  St.  Ange  would  pay  a  rich  ransom  to 
the  one  who  restored  the  child  to  Madume's  arms. 

The  Indians  of  those  days  often  stole  away 
captives  they  had  themselves  sold  to  the  Cana- 
dians, in  order  to  extort  presents  for  their  re- 
turn, from  their  French  masters,  to  whom  they 
had  grown  either  precious  or  useful. 

Therefore,  the  old  squaw  smiled  kindly  upon 
poor  little  Love,  who  was  shedding  silent  tears 
of  fright  and  disappointment. 

It  was  all  so  different  from  the  story  of  Prin- 
cess BeUe-helle^  No  lovely  robe  of  pink  satin 
covered  with  jewels;  no  pink  velvet  slippers 
studded  with  pearls  t 

She  was  still  in  her  torn  and  dirty  clothes ; 
and  this  ugly  old  woman  who  held  fast  to  her, 
must  surely  be  the  sister  of  the  ogre  who  oar- 


100 


urr  Leslie's  folrs. 


ried  off  BelU-bdle.  In  spite  of  all  her  tears  and 
trouble,  however,  she  fell  asleep,  after  awhile, 
euddled  down  under  the  strong-smelling  buffalo 
robes,  with  her  head  in  N'-o-kum*s  lap.  And 
thus,  sleeping  heavily,  and  dreaming  broken 
dreams  of  Madame  and  Margot,  Colette  and  Rose- 
Marie,  with  wild  interludes  of  being  chased  by 
Wheelwright  and  Lot  Leslie,  the  poor  little  crea- 
ture knew  not  when  the  sleigh  had  stopped ;  but 
awoke,  next  morning,  to  find  herself  in  the  In- 
dian mission  at  Lorette. 

She  cried  bitterly  while  N'-o-kum  gave  her  a 
plentiful  breakfast  of  boiled  hominy  and  maple 
syrup. 

'  She  missed  the  white  rolls  and  toothsome  jel- 
lies— the  damask,  silver,  and  crystal  of  her  Mont- 
real breakfast  table;  and  she  begged  the  old 
woman,  with  many  a  winning  caress,  to  take  her 
back  to  her  pretty  mamma. 

But  the  wily  squaw  would  only  grunt  from 
time  to  time :  "  Awis  wabank  /  (after  to-mor- 
row,)" or  ^^Panimor—jxmima!  (by  and  by,  by 
and  by  1)" 

Seeing  that  the  child  still  kept  on  sobbing  and 
grieving,  K  '-o-kum  took  her  out  into  the  streets 
of  the  Indian  village,  where  the  savages  flocked 
around  her,  and  tried  to  pacify  and  please  her. 

She  was  such  a  pretty  child  with  her  big, 
black  eyes  and  clear  pink  and  white  skin  that  the 


c 


tears  and 
T  awhile, 
ig  buffalo 
tp.     And 
Ig  broken 
and  Rose- 
chased  by 
ittle  crea- 
)ped;  but 
in  the  In- 

pive  her  a 
ftnd  maple 

hsome  jel- 
her  Mont- 
)d  the  old 
o  take  her 

runt  from 
er  to-mor- 
ad  by,  by 

bbing  and 
;he  streets 
es  flocked 
Bse  her. 

her  big, 
a  that  the 


WHAT   HAPPENED   AT  THKKK   UIVKK8.     101 

Indians  never  tired  looking  at  her.  It  was  one 
of  their  delights  to  catch  up  her  long,  soft,  red 
curls,  and  (Miss  them  through  their  fingers. 

If  Love  had  been  older  and  wiser  she  might 
have  had  some  terrible  fears  and  suspicions  of 
their  scalping-knives,  at  these  moments.    But, 

"  ignorance  is  bliu  " 

oftentimes,  and  the  little  girl  only  noticed  that 
none  of  the  females  of  the  tribe  had  red  hair  like 
her  own.  She  supposed  that  that  was  what 
made  her  ringlets  attractive  to  these  queer  peo- 
ple, who  brought  their  sticks  of  charcoal,  and 
drew  pictures  of  deers,  wolves,  bears  and  flsbe* 
on  her  soiled  white  skirt. 

When  they  proceeded  to  paint  her  fair  oheeki 
in  the  Indian  fashion,  she  cried  aloud  with  n- 
sentment ;  and  no  one  could  quiet  her,  until  a 
boy  of  ten,  or  so,  ran  up,  and  rubbed  the  yelloir 
paint  from  her  soft  cheek  with  a  ooroer  of  bJ» 
blanket. 

This  boy  was  then  given  her  for  a  {^ymato. 

There  was  something  about  him  thai  bad 
drawn  her  to.  him  from  the  first  moment  isbe 
saw  him. 

He  was  almost  as  fair  as  herself,  yet  be  wmt 
dressed  like  a  little  Indian  chief.  He  won  a 
ruffled  shirt,  leggings  trimmed  mik  Imi^  WMt 
many-colored  ribbons,  and  *  bandioin«  pUf  f4 


102 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


embroidered  moccasins.  On  his  head,  he  wore  an 
otter-skin  cap,  with  a  tall  bunch  of  scarlet  plumes 
in  its  front. 

A  handsomer,  or  more  manly,  little  fellow  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  find,  with  his  bright, 
dark  eyes  and  curling  auburn  hair.  He  was  as 
supple  as  a  reed,  and  as  straight  as  an  arrow. 

Very  kind  and  gentle,  he  was,  to  little  Love. 
Taking  her  by  the  hand,  he  led  her  away  from 
the  other  Indians  to  the  best-looking  house  in 
the  village,  standing  close  to  a  large,  frame 
building,  on  top  of  which  was  a  big  yellow 
cross.  This  last  was  the  Roman  Catholic  chapel 
of  St.  Anthony—for  the  tribe  of  St.  Francis  was 
a  Catholic  one,  converted  to  Christianity,  many 
years  before,  by  the  Franciscan  Fathers,  known 
as  the  "  Recollects.''^ 

The  mission  was,  at  present,  in  the  care  of  the 
Jesuits. 

When  the  boy  in  the  ruffled  shirt  and  beaded 
leggings  rapped  at  the  door  of  the  house  next  the 
church,  an  old  man  in  a  black  gown  and  skull- 
cap came  out,  and  smiled  at  the  children  in  a 
friendly  way. 

"Well,  Joseph?"  said  he  to  the  boy,  in 
French,  "  what  is  it  now  ?  " 

"Is  Pfire  Eugene  at  home  yet,  Brother?" 
questioned  the  lad  in  the  same  tongue. 

"Nay,  nay,"  replied  the  old  man,  shaking  his 


he  wore  an 
rlet  plumes 

[e  fellow  it 
I  his  bright, 
He  was  as 
I  arrow, 
little  Love, 
away  from 
ig  house  in 
arge,  frame 
big  yellow 
holic  chapel 
Francis  was 
anity,  many 
bers,  known 

3  care  of  the 

and  beaded 
>use  next  the 
rn  and  skull- 
ihildren  in  a 

the   boy,  in 

,  Brother?" 

le. 

,  shaking  his 


WHAT  HAPPENED   AT  THREE  RIVERS.     103 

wise  head,  "the  Father  is  on  the  Easter  visita- 
tion ♦.o  many  scattered  tribes.  It  takes  a  long 
time  to  look  them  aU  up,  and  attend  to  their 
souls.  It  may  be  weeks  before  he  gets  baxsk. 
But,  who  is  this  little  lady  you  have  brought  us, 

this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  returned  the  boy,  cautiously,  in 
the  Huron  tongue.  "  N'-o-kum  fetched  her  to  the 
village,  last  night." 

"She  is  a  pretty  little  girl,"  said  the  Brother : 
whereat.  Love  guessing  from  their  looks  and 
words  that  they  talked  about  herself,  burst  into 
tears,  and  began  to  sob: 

« I  want  my  mamma  I  I  want  to  go  back  to 
my  dear,  sweet  mamma,  and  to  papa,  and  Mar- 
got,  and  Colette,  and  Rose-Marie  1 " 

"  Take  her  to  see  St.  Anthony,  Joseph,"  said 
the  good  Brother,  rather  flustered  by  the  child's 
tears  and  outcries.  "Teach  her  that  U  is  the 
saint  who  finds  all  that  is  lost  for  those  that  in- 
voke him;"  and  away  he  bustled  back  to. his 
kitchen,  whence  the  smell  of  burning  meat  gave 
him  to  know  that  the  dinner  of  b^r's  flesh  was 
being  overdone  on  the  neglected  spit. 

Joseph  soothed  and  petted  his  little  companion 
as  weU  as  he  could,  gathering  some  early  wild 
flowers  for  her,  and  leading  her  by  the  hand  to 
a  circular  plot  of  ground,  in  front  of  the  church, 
railed  in  by  a  very  pretty  rustic  fence. 


104 


LOT  LE8LIE  8        >LK8. 


In  the  centre  of  this,  was  a  pedestal  of  stond, 
some  four  feet  high,  on  which,  under  a  hood  of 
native  oak,  stood  a  beautiful  statue  of  a  saint, 
bearing  in  his  arms  an  image  of  the  Infant  J<%nB. 

This  was  St.  Anthony  of  Padua,  in  his  brown 
habit  with  its  cincture  of  knotted  cord,  his  ton- 
sure and  his  rosary.  His  face  was  smiling  and 
gentle ;  and  the  lovely  face  of  the  Holy  Babe  in 
his  embrace,  looked  up  at  him  with  an  expression 
of  confiding  tenderness,  very  touching  to  see. 

Around  the  base  of  the  statue,  some  words 
were  printed  in  Latin,  which  neither  Joseph  nor 
Love  could  read. 

If  the  little  girl  could  have  made  them  out, 
she  would  have  jumped  for  joy.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, ahe  followed  the  boy  very  soberly,  when 
he  unlatched  the  gate  in  the  rustic  fence,  and 
led  her  into  the  enclosure. 

There  was  a  kneeling-bench  before  the  feet  of 
the  statue,  large  enough  to  accommodate  two 
persons. 

Joseph  drew  his  new  friend  down  beside  him 
on  this  homely  prie-dieu  ;  and  began  to  explain 
to  her  all  he  had  been  taught  about  St.  Anthony, 
and  of  his  power  to  find  lost  persons  and  things 
for  those  who  pray  to  him  devoutly. 

While  the  little  girl  listened  with  deep  inter- 
est, lisping  after  him  her  simple  petition  to  the 
Wonder-worker  of  Padua,  to  restore  to  her,  by 


li^ 


WHAT  HAPPENED   AT  THREE   ItlVEKS.    105 


of  stond, 
a  hood  of 
I  a  saint, 
ant  JasoB. 
his  brown 
d,  his  ton- 
niling  and 
y  Babe  in 
expression 
to  see. 
me  words 
oseph  nor 

them  out, 

was,  how- 

brly,  when 

fence,  and 

the  feet  of 
odate  two 

beside  him 

to  explain 

Anthony, 

tnd  things 

leep  inter- 
ion  to  the 
to  her,  by 


his  pra^'ers,  her  lost  parents  and  friends,  there 
were  others  of  her  blood  who  were  beginning,  at 
that  hour,  to  draw  nearer  to  her,  in  the  Faith  of 
Christ — the  faith  of  that  great  Household,  whose 
children  all  rejoice  in  a  common  Father  and 
Mother — a  Divine  Father,  a  heavenly  Mother, 
devoted,  unfailing,  imperishable. 

In  the  lodge  of  the  widow,  Mary  Tarbuki, 
Faith  and  Hope  Leslie  had  found  a  peaceful 
home,  after  the  battle  of  the  blockhouse,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Detroit. 

Prudence  Skillet  was  already  there,  as  the 
faithful  slave  of  Mary  and  Catharine.  Wh^n 
she  represented  to  her  mistress  the  sad  state  of 
the  two  little  girls  whom  poor  Suitara's  death 
had  left  at  the  mercy  of  the  fierce  Ottawa 
squaws — Pontiac's  many  wives — the  saintly 
Wyandot  woman  and  her  daughter  eagerly 
agreed  to  buy  the  young  Yankees  from  Sui- 
tara's  stepmother  for  a  handful  of  plumes  and 
trinkets. 

A  zeal  and  piety  like  those  of  the  early  Chris- 
tians burned  brightly  in  the  breasts  of  Mary  and 
Catharine.  They  hungered  for  the  salvation  of 
souls;  and  it  was  mainly  the  hope  of  leading  the 
white  sisters  to  the  True  Faith  (of  which  Pru- 
dence, they  suspected,  had  already  begun  to  see 
the  force  and  beauty)  that  induced  them  to  pur- 
chase the  two  girls  from  the  Ottawaa. 


^P" 


106 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


They  knew  them,  and  Prudence,  aa  yet,  only 
by  the*  Indian  names  Suitara  had  given  them. 

Not  since  the  fatal  morning  when  the  young 
Leslies  had  been  torn  from  their  happy  home  on 
Swan  Island,  had  they  known  such  true  peace  and 
joy  as  they  now  tasted  in  the  lodge  of  the  Tar- 
bukis.  Suitara  had  not  been  a  cruel  mistress ;  but, 
nevertheless,  their  daily  life  had  often  been  made 
miserable  for  them  by  her  caprices,  her  jealous 
moods,  her  nvmy  savage  tricks  and  turns  of 

fancy. 

How  different  all  was  in  the  home  of  Mary  and 
Catharine!  How  sweet  it  was  to  serve  these 
gentle,  unselfish  women,  who  bore  in  their  beau- 
tiful faces  the  peace  and  love  of  God  1  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  they  sought  Him  and  His  divine 
Will,  with  a  single  heart,  by  day  and  night— that, 
like  their  beloved  Master,  they  went  about  doing 
good  continually  to  their  people. 

The  baptism  of  the  Princess  in  the  blockhouse 
had  made  a  powerful  impression  on  Faith  and 

Hope. 

Catharine  had  looked  to  them,  that  gloomy 
day,  as  an  angel  of  light  and  mercy. 

The  unearthly  peace  and  brightness  that  set- 
tled on  Suitara's  brow  at  the  moment  of  death, 
had  seemed  merely  a  reflection  of  the  lovely  light 
that  always  shone  from  Catharine's  tranquil  fa«e. 

Her  mother, "  Mistress  Tarbucket,"  as  Prudence 


'•'•M 


^BiP 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THREE   RIVERS.    107 


yet,  only 

them. 
|the  young 

home  on 

peace  and 
f  the  Tar- 
itress ;  bat, 
been  made 
ler  jealous 

turns  of 

'  Mary  and 
erve  these 
their  beau- 
i  I  It  was 
His  divine 
ight— that, 
tbont  doing 

blockhouse 
Faith  and 

at  gloomy 

IS  that  set- 
t  of  death, 
ovely  light 
nquil  face. 
)  Prudence 


called  her — Omi-Me^  (or  the  Dove)  as  the  tribe 
named  her — was  a  simple,  fervent  soul,  whose 
life  was  one  long  act  of  prayer,  penance,  and 
good  works. 

Even  old  Why-washi-braoch,  Catharine's  blind 
grandmother — Anne  by  baptism,  but  whom  Miss 
Skillet  hilariously  styled  ''old  White- wash  Brush  " 
— edified  all  around  her  by  the  singular  perfec- ' 
tion  of  her  life.  Sitting  constantly  on  a  mat,  in  a 
corner  of  her  daughter's  lodge,  telling  her  prayer- 
beads,  or  speaking  to  the  young  people  when 
they  drew  near  her,  in  words  of  living  faith  and 
glowing  piety,  it  seemed  to  the  little  white  girls 
as  if  a  very  seraph  were  hidden  in  the  homely 
shape  of  the  old  brown,  wrinkled,  sightless 
woman. 

Her  knowledge  of  divine  truths  was  remarka- 
ble— ^plainly,  a  special  gift  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
and  the  three  Yankee  slaves  learned  from  her 
grave,  gen  le  lips,  many  precious  things  about 
God  and  salvation,  of  which  they  had  been  ut- 
terly ignorant  all  their  lives. 

These,  they  could  not  very  well  escape  listen- 
ing to,  as  the  blind  grandmother  held  a  regular 
Catechism  class,  each  day,  in  her  corner  of  the 
lodge,  to  which  the  little  Wyandots  were  fetched 
by  their  mothers,-  who  daily  resorted  to  Mary 
Tarbuki  for  medicine,  advice,  consolation  in  their 
trials,  or  reconciliation  with  their  enemies. 


108 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


Mary  was,  indeed,  almost  worshipped  by  those 
simple  children  of  the  forest,  who  reoogi^zed  in 
her,  solely  by  their  Christian  instincts, 

«A  perfect  woman,  nobly  pknn'd. 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet,  a  spirit  still  and  bright. 
With  something  of  an  angel  light." 

Under  the  quiet  roof  of  this  dear  Omi-Mee,  the 
fall  and  winter  months  passed  peacefully  away  ; 
and  if,  at  times.  Faith  or  little  Hope  fretted 
meekly  in  secret  for  the  old  Swan  Island  home 
and  the  dear  ones  they  had  lost,  if  they  longed 
to  be  out,  once  more,  on  the  wide,  grey  beach, 
gathering  shells  among  the  rocks,  or  running 
breezy,  rosy-cheeked  races  in  the  blithe  salt  winds 
— Prudence,  good  woman,  was  ever  at  hand, 
ready  to  quiet  them  at  night,  when  she  soothed 
them  to  sleep,  or  cheer  them,  by  day,  when  they 
labored  at  her  side,  with  her  encouraging  quota- 
tions from  the  Bible,  such  as :  "  When  thou  pass- 
eth  through  the  water,  I  will  be  with  thee,  and 
through  the  rivers,  they  shall  not  ov»flow  thee ; " 
or,  again :  "  He  hath  showed  thee,  O  man,  what 
is  good ;  and  what  doth  the  Lord  reqnireof  the^ 
Imt  to  Ao  juitly,  and  lovennerey,  and^wiOk  himibly 
with  thy  ftod  ?    Hear  ye  the  rod,  and  wK<>  hath 
a|»p6int6d  it." 

Thus  blindfolded,  as  it  were,  and  quite  unooa- 


ed  by  those 
cognized  in 


*mi-Mee,  the 
fully  away ; 
!ope  fretted 
Island  home 
they  longed 
grey  beach, 
or  running 
te  salt  winds 
iT  at  hand, 
she  soothed 
',  when  they 
iging  quota- 
)n  thou  pass- 
th  thee,  and 
rflowthee;" 
3  man,  what 
luireoftheA, 
irilkhiimHy 
nd  wK^hath 

quite  nnooa- 


WHAT  HAPPENED   AT  THREE  RIVERS. 

scious  of  the  fate  before  them,  the  three  slaves 
were  being  led  by  their  household  angels,  (as 
were  many,  of  o'd,  in  the  days  of  early  Christian 
Rome)— conducted  through  the  strange,  quiet 
darkness  of  their  time  of  bondage  into  the  true 
freedom  of  the  children  of  God— into  the  bright- 
ness of  that  city  which  "  needeth  not  sun  nor 
moon  to  shine  in  it :  for  the  glory  of  God  hath 
enlightened  it,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  hunp  thereof." 


!P" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  MISSION  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION. 

Night  had  faUen  by  the  time  Father  Peter's 
canoe  shot  into  the  bay,  shaped  like  a  half-moon, 
and  washing  what  was  then  known  as  Montreal 
Point,  but  now  marked  on  our  maps  as  Sandwich, 

in  Ontario. 

Timothy  Grindstone,  who  sat  in  the  prow  of 
the  boat,  holding  in  his  arms  the  almost  lifeless 
form  of  little  Wilson  Leslie,  was  surprised  to  see 
a  number  of  bright  lights,  flashing  here  and  there, 
along  the  shore,  dancing  through  the  darkness, 
like  so  many  shooting  meteors,  or  wandering 
will-o'-the-wisps. 

Stepping  from  the  boat  to  the  beach,  he  saw 
that  these  w.  e  torches  carried  by  Indians,  as 
the  Christian  Hurons  came  running  quickly  from 
their  wigwams  to  welcome  the  priest. 

The  news  of  the  fight  at  the  blockhouse  had 
reached  them  through  some  runners  of  their 
tribe  (for  the  Wyandots  and  the  Hurons  formed, 
after  all,  but  one  great  famUy);  and  these  men 
were  eager  to  hear  details  of  the  battle. 
Father  Peter  was  deaf  to  their  questions,  how- 

uo 


^«4^ 


ION. 

bier  Peter's 

half-moon, 

8  Montreal 

Sandwich, 

be  prow  of 
lost  lifeless 
rised  to  see 
e  and  there, 
le  darkness, 
wandering 

ach,  he  saw 

Indians,  as 

uickly  from 

3khouse  had 
jrs  of  their 
ons  formed, 
i  these  men 
tie. 
sstions,  how- 


THB  MISSION   OF  THE   ASSUMPTION.      lU 

ever,  until  they  had  fetched  him  a  sort  of  canvas 
stretcher,  made  from  an  old  sail,  on  which  he 
laid  the  limp  figure  of  Uttle  Wilson,  bidding 
them  carry  him  gently  up  to  the  mission  house. 

The  priest,  with  Timothy,  led  the  way. 

Some  three  hundred  feet  abc  /e  the  shore,  and 
overlooking  the  strait,  stood  then  a  good-sized 
buUding  known  as  the  Huron  Mission-house  of 
Detroit.  Close  by,  was  the  mission  church  of  our 
Lady  of  the  Assumption,  dedicated  less  than  fifty 

years  before. 

It  was  built  of  hewed,  upright  timber ;  and  was 
about  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long.  There 
was  a  large  bell  in  its  belfry,  which  began  to 
ring  just  as  Father  Peter  and  his  party  drew 

near. 

Immediately,  those  who  carried  the  stretcher 
stood  still ;  and  all  fell  upon  their  knees  save 
Timothy,  who  did  not  know  that  it  was  the 
Angelus  bell,  announcing,  even  in  that  wild  spot, 
the  Incarnation  of  the  Eternal  Son  of  God,  and 
the  glory  of  His  Virgin  Mother. 

The  church-door  stood  open,  and  Father  Peter, 
lifting  his  cap,  knelt  on  the  threshold,  and  said 
the  prayers  aloud— all,  save  Timothy  and  Wilson, 
responding  with  solemn  devotion. 

Somehow  or  other,  it  moved  Grindstone  al- 
most to  tears,  to  look  on  those  kneeling  savages, 
Iwwing  their  heads,  and  uniting  in  fervent  prayer 


■  1 


iia 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


with  their  priest.  And  he  was  near  enough  to 
one  of  the  torches,  to  watch  the  Father  gazing 
with  adoring  eyes  into  the  fragrant  darkness  of 
the  church  up  to  the  dim  outline  of  the  white 
altar,  with  its  perpetual  lamp  burning  before  it, 
like  a  holy  star. 

He  was  still  pondering  over  the  scene,  when 
he  found  himself,  with  the  others,  before  the  big 
Mission  house,  with  its  massive  stone  chimneys 
and  dormer  windows,  brought  into  clear  view  by 
the  light  of  the  full  moon,  but  just  arisen. 

On  the  step,  in  that  flood  of  silvery  light, 
stood  a  slight,  venerable  man,  with  the  face  of  a 
scholar  and  a  saint.  He  wore  a  bUck  gown  and 
cap  similar  to  those  of  Father  Peter. 

This  was  the  Superior  of  the  mission— Father 
Armand  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  He  still  bore 
traces  of  the  paralysis,  that  had  stricken  him 
down,  nine  years  previous. 

He  gave  a  warm,  gentle  welcome  to  Timothy : 
and  (Ume  as  he  was)  helped  with  his  own  hands 
to  carry  poor  little  Wilson  into  the  Infirmary  of 
the  Mission— a  long,  exquisitely  neat  room,  with 
a  double  row  of  little  white  beds. 

On  one  of  these.  Father  Peter  hiid  the  wounded 
boy ;  and  Brother  Borgia,  then  in  ohai^  of  the 
sick,  proceeded  to  examine  and  dress  his  bleeding 
arm.  This  done,  and  his  face  bathed  with  a  so. 
lution  of  vinegar  and  water,  the  little  fellow 


^ 


9nough  to 
er  gazing 
irkness  of 
the  white 
before  it, 

ene,  when 
re  the  big 
chimneys 
uf  view  by 
>en. 

ery  light, 
e  face  of  a 
gown  and 

in — Father 
e  still  bore 
ricken  him 

>  Timothy : 
own  hands 
ifirmary  of 
room,  with 

le  wounded 
uge  of  the 
is  bleeding 
with  a  80< 
btle  fellow 


THE  MISSION  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION.       118 

opened  his  eyes  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  bad  rested  on  a  comfortable 
bed  since  the  awful  morning  of  the  surprise  at 
Swan  Island. 

Looking  languidly  before  him,  he  saw  on  the 
opposite  wall,  a  great  crucifix  of  carved  wood. 
At  its  base,  burned  a  taper-lamp  of  scarlet  glass. 
The  red  flame  threw  its  flickering  light  upon  the 
pierced  feet  of  the  Christ,  until  they  seemed  to 
be  bathed  in  blood. 

"  Who  is  that  Man,  Timmie  ?  And  why  does 
He  bleed?"  whispered  the  boy  to  Timothy,  who 
was  bending  anxiously  over  him:  "Have  the 
Indians  wounded  Him,  too?" 

*'  Be  still,  dear  child !  You  will  learn  all  about 
it  when  you  are  well,"  put  in  Father  Peter,  who 
had  caught  the  faint,  pathetic  whisper.  "  Give 
him  a  sleeping-draught.  Brother ;  and  then,  we 
will  leave  him  in  your  hands  for  a  good  night's 
rest.  JHeu  vou»  gartUy  cher  enftmt !  " — with  a 
kindly  touch  on  the  boy's  pale  brow. 

And  while  Brother  Borgia  lifted  Willy  in  his 
strong  arms,  and  gave  him  the  draught,  the  two 
priests  led  Grindstone,  rather  reluctantly  away, 
to  take  supper  with  them  in  the  refectory  close 
at  hand. 

Never  had  poor  Timothy  sat  down  to  table  in 
company  of  such  perfect  gentlemen  as  Father 
Armand  and  Father  Peter.    But  they  soon  put 


ritftai 


^ 


^■1 


■I 


\ 


V 


114 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


him  completely  at  his  ease ;  and  he  was  surprised 
to  And  himself  laughing  heartily  at  Father 
Peter's  merry  sallies,  whUe  he  never  tired  look- 
ing at  the  grave,  gentle  eyes  of  the  quiet  Supe- 
rior—eyes that  seemed  to  be  always  gazing  into 
the  unseen  delights  of  the  Other  World. 

After  an  excellent  supper,  which  his  hard  day 
of  fighting  and  exhausting  excitement  made 
very  acceptable,  Timothy  was  given  a  pipe  of 
good  tobacco,  and  invited  to  join  the  priests 
around  the  blazing  fire. 

Seated  in  the  only  easy-chair  the  room  con- 
tained, Father  Peter  drew  him  on  to  repeat  to 
the  Superior,  the  story  he  had  told  him,  that  af- 
ternoon, on  the  cliff  by  the  river.  And,  as  Tim- 
othv  described  the  dreadful  attack  on  the  Swan 
Ishiiid  fort,  and  the  slaughter  of  old  Captain 
James  Wilson  and  his  wife.  Father  Peter  asked 
many  questions  about  Lot  LesUe's  folks ;  and 
wrote  down  in  a  little  book,  the  names  and  ages 
of  all  the  members  of  that  scattered  family. 

♦•We've  never  seen  any  of  them  since  we 
parted  in  the  boats,"  said  Grindstone  sadly. 
"  They  may  all  be  dead,  now,  save  Willy  and 
me!  And  what  are  we?"  (he  added  with 
some  bitterness  as  he  looked  down  at  his  blood- 
stained rags  and  torn  moccasins) :  "  what  are  we, 
but  a  pair  of  half-naked  savages  ?  We've  lost  all 
likeness  to  civilized  human*." 


•  » 


A. 


MMMM 


THE  MKS.SION   OF  TUJi  AHHUMPTIOIT.       116 


[urpriied 
Father 
look- 
Jet  Sape- 
dng  into 

lard  day 
It  made 
pipe  of 
priests 

x>m  oon- 

repeat  to 

that  af- 

as  Tim- 

;he  Swan 

Captain 

ter  asked 

Iks;  and 

and  ages 

lily. 

since  we 
le  sadly, 
^illy  and 
led  with 
lis  bJood- 
it  are  we 
re  lost  all 


Then,  he  went  on  to  remark  how  gladly  he 
would  swap  his  Indian  toggery,  on  the  spot,  for 
a  decent  suit  of  white  men's  clothes.  All  the 
more,  because  llaukimah  and  most  of  his  nation 
had  been  slain,  that  day,  in  the  fight  at  the 
blockhouse. 

But  Father  Armand  knew  well  the  habits  of 
the  natives,  and  how  strong  and  solemn  were 
the  ties  of  adoption  into  any  of  the  tribes.  He 
advised  Timothy  to  have  patience,  and  wait  un- 
til he  was  sure  that  the  vengeance  of  the  sur- 
viving Caughnewagas  would  not  pursue  him  and 
little  Leslie  to  the  death.  It  was  the  custom 
of  the  tribes  (he  said)  to  follow,  like  sleuth- 
hounds,  and  to  torture  and  kill  any  '*  pale-face  *' 
who  deserted  from  the  camp  after  having  been 
once  adopted,  as  they  had  been,  in  the  place  of 
their  illustrious  dead. 

"  Talk  about  standin'  in  dead  men's  shoes !  ** 
said  Timothy,  with  a  grim  laugh,  "why,  sirs,  it 
ain't  a  touch  to  meanderin'  around  in  a  dead 
Caughnewaga's  moccasins ! " — but  he  wa8  forced 
to  submit  to  his  fate,  seeing  how  wise  and  rea- 
sonable were,  the  Superior's  arguments.  He 
contented  himself,  therefore,  with  drawing  out 
the  silver  rings  from  his  nose  and  ears,  secretly 
resolving  to  do  the  same  bold  office  for  Willy  on 
the  morrow. 

And,  Father  Peter,  observing  presently  that 


W 


116 


LOT   LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


f 


the  poor  feUow  began  to  yawn  a  great  deal, 
and  to  grow  very  stiff  and  drowsy  in  the  unus- 
age  of  a  soft  chair  and  a  comfortable  fireside, 
led  him  away,  right  willingly,  to  bed,  in  one  of 
the  little  white  cots  close  to  Wilson's,  where  he 
was  soon  wrapped  in  a  deep,  refreshing  sleep. 

The  silvery  sound  of  a  chiming  bell  awoke 
Timothy  very  early  in  the  morning;  and,  steal- 
ing softly  to  the  window,  he  was  surpriseil  to 
see  the  two  priests  in  their  black  gowns  and 
cloaks  already  quitting  the  house,  and  making 
their  way  down  the  road. 

Some  impulse  moved  him  to  follow  them. 
Seeing  that  Willy  was  still  breathing  quietly 
in  a  sound,  restful  slumber,  Timothy  caught  up 
his  blanket,  and  crept  out  to  the  hall,  where  he 
found  the  great  entrance  door  unfastened. 

He  passed  through  it  into  the  road,  along 
which  were  hurrying  many  Hurons  — men, 
women,  and  children. 

All  seemed  bound  for  one  common  point. 
Some  of  these  eyed  Grindstone  with  natural  cu- 
riosity. Others  recognized  him  at  once  as  the 
white  Caughnewaga  the  Bla«k  Robe  had  brought 
home  with  him,  the  past  night,  in  his  canoe. 

No  one  spoke  to  or  molested  him;  but  he 
kept  pace  with  the  swiftest,  until  they  ended  by 
showing  him  the  way  to  the  big  church  near  the 
river. 


%  t 


^ 


great  deal, 
Q  the  unuB- 
)le  fireside, 
i,  in  one  of 
8,  where  he 
ing  sleep, 
bell  awoke 
;  and,  steal- 
lurpriseil  to 
gowns  and 
md  making 

V  them, 
hing  quietly 
r  caught  up 
11,  where  he 
«ned. 

road,  along 
rons  —  men, 

(imon  point. 
ti  natural  cu- 
once  as  the 
had  brought 
is  canoe, 
him;  but  he 
ley  ended  by 
irch  near  the 


%  i 


THE  MISSION  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION.       HT 

Timothy  thought  to  himself  that  it  was  a 
mighty  queer  time  of  the  day  to  go  to  meeting. 
He  pushed  on  with  the  crowd,  however:  ami, 
once  in  the  church,  he  got  behind  one  of  the 
thick  wooden  pUlars  that  supported  the  roof, 
where  he  stood  upright,  seeing  evorything,  but 
himself  quite  hidden  from  sight. 

When  he  gazed  curiously  about  him,  he  found 
he  had  no  need  to  hide  himself  from  view. 

Nobody  looked  at  him— nobody  looked  at 
anything  but  the  white  altar,  on  which  candles 
were  burning,  and  some  strange  objects  were 

shining. 

Once,  when  a  boy,  he  had  gone  to  meetmg  in 
a  country  town.  What  had  struck  him,  there, 
had  been  the  easy  sociability  of  all  concerned. 
The  congregation  had  chatted,  and  exchanged 
bits  of  gossip  in  the  pews:  the  parson  had 
walked  down  the  aisle,  shaking  hands  with  old 
and  young,  and  saying  a  word,  here  and  there, 
about  the  weather,  the  crops,  and  what  not. 

There  was  nothing  solemn— nothing  worship- 
ful- „  J    u 
In  this  Indian  Mission  church,  all  seemed  ab- 
sorbed in  the  service ;  every  eye  was  riveted  on 
what  was  going  on  at  the  altar. 

And  Timothy,  looking  steadily  in  that  direc- 
tion, thought  it  the  strangest  sight  he  had  ever 
seen. 


118 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


i'i 


A  white  man  was  there,  old  and  grey,  and 
dressed  up  in  a  black  gown,  surmounted  by  an- 
other of  white  linen  ana  lace,  over  which  he 
wore  a  queer  green  silk  overcoat,  without  sleeves, 
and  covered  with  gold  embroidery. 

He  was  as  busy  as  he  could  be  at  the  altar, 
now  reading  out  of  a  big,  gilded  book,  again, 
doing  something  with  a  golden  drinking-cup  and 
a  litUe  round  gold  plate. 

He  kept  bowing,  and  turning,  and  saying  queer 
words  softly,  in  a  tongue  unknown  to  Timothy ; 
and  two  little  Indian  boys,  wearing  long  scarlet 
gowns,  gave  him,  at  one  time,  what  looked  like 
wine  and  water  out  of  a  brace  of  small  glass 
bottles  from  a  table  close  by;  and  at  another, 
offered  him  water  to  wash  his  fingers  with,  and 
a  clean  napkin  to  dry  them. 

After  awhile,  a  little  bell  rang,  up  near  the  al- 
tar; and,  at  the  liound,  all  the  people  in  the 
church  fell  down  upon  their  faces. 
Timothy,  also,  dropped  down  upon  his  knees. 
He  could  not  help  himself.  The  silence  was 
profound.  He  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
He  had  a  strange  feeling  in  his  untutored  heart 
that  Something  very  solemn  and  awful  was  go- 
ing on  at  that  light^  altar  I 

Some  One  was- there  Whom  he  did  not  knoWj  a* 
yet:  hut  Whom,  for  the  ^st  time,  he  burned  to 
know,  and  love,  and  serve,  all  the  days  of  his  life/ 


I 


?rey, 


and 


«d  by  an- 
which  he 
ut  sleeves, 

the  altar, 
ok,  again, 
g-cup  and 

^ing  queer 
Timothy ; 
ng  scarlet 
ooked  like 
mall  glass 
another, 
;  with,  and 

ear  the  al- 
pie  in  the 

lis  knees, 
tilence  was 
lad  to  foot. 
x>red  heart 
fol  wasgo- 

9t  know,  a* 

burned  to 

^f  his  life! 


THE  MISSION  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION.       119 

Fall  of  these  strange  thoughts  and  desires,  and 
bewildered  by  all  he  saw,  it  was  a  long  while  be- 
fore he  recognized  the  old  man  in  the  green  silk 
robe,  who  lifted  the  white  Wafer  and  the  golden 
Cup,  and  bowed  down,  adoringly,  before  Them. 
It  was  long  (or  it  seemed  long  to  him),  before  he 
understood  that  he  was  really  Father  Armand, 
the  Superior  of  the  mission — the  priest  with  the 
wonderful  eyes. 

But  he  had  a  great  many  questions  to  ask 
Father  Peter,  after  breakfast,  that  morning,  when 
the  merry,  sociable  priest  took  him  to  see  the 
great  Forge  (with  its  brawny  armorer)  that  had 
been  builded  near  the  crescent  bay,  and  where 
weapons  and  farming  tools  were  made  for  all  the 
male  adults  of  the  mission,  white  or  red. 

Later  in  the  day,  the  priest  brought  him  to  the 
Mission  storehouse,  to  see  Brother  La  Tour  and 
his  help,  r.  Brother  Regis,  working  busily  among 
their  huge  piles  of  furs  and  blankets,  their  well- 
filled  shelves  of  paints,  cutlery,  cotton,  and  spark- 
ling trinkets. 

Here,  (thanks  to  the  wise  forethought  of  Father 
Armand!)  the  Huron  hunters  could  dispose  of 
their  peltry  to  the  English  traders,  without  risk- 
ing, to  do  so,  a  long,  dangerous  journey  through 
hostile  territory. 

When  Timothy  and  the  priest  entered  the  big 
store,  it  was  thronged  with  traders,  hunters,  run- 


h 


180 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


nere  of  the  woods  (coureurs  de  boit),  or  bush- 
rangers. . 

A  motley  crowd,  they  were,  sitting  or  lounging 
about  on  bales  and  boxes,  most  of  them  in  blanket- 
coats,  or  frocks  of  smoked  deerskin,  their  rifles 
beside  them,  and  a  knife  and  a  hatchet  in  each 

stout  belt. 

In  their  midst,  a  young  Huron  hunter,  tall, 
shapely,  i»iid  handsome  as  a  bronze  statue,  was 
questioning  Brother  Kegis  as  to  why  some  men 
(like  himself)  were  red  of  skin,  while  other  some 
(like  Eegis)  were  white  as  the  snows  of  winter. 

Before  the  busy  lay-Brother  could  make  fitting 
reply,  a  bold,  clear  voice  rose  out  of  the  crowd, 
and  smote  all  the  rest  into  silence,  as  one  of  the 
traders  began  to  recite,  in  French,  an  old  Indian 

legend. 

It  was  an  odd,  musical  rhyme,  given  rapidly, 
with  striking  gestures,  and  with  many  a  flash  of 
white  teeth  and  brilliant  eyes  in  the  speaker's 
dark  Canadiar  face. 

Stripped  of  some  of  their  native  grace  and 
force,  the  words  might  be  made  to  read  thus  in 
homely  English : 

"  Before  her  father's  wigwam,  painted  golden  by  the  sunset, 

In  scarlet  blanket,  crouching  near  the  trader's  blue-eyed  mate, 
Swa-nee.  the  chieftain's  daughter— her  black  hair  bound  with 
wampum. 
Watched  stealthily  a  group  beyond  .      polisado's  gate. 


I,  or  bush- 

ir  lounging 
in  blanket- 
bbeir  rifles 
bet  in  each 

anter,  tall, 
Btatue,  was 
'  some  men 
other  some 
►f  winter, 
oake  fitting 
the  crowd, 
}  one  of  the 
I  old  Indian 

en  rapidly, 
ly  a  flash  of 
be  speaker's 

I  grace  and 
read  thus  in 


he  sunset, 
blue-eyed  mate, 
boir  bound  with 

io's  gate. 


THE  MISSION  OF  THE   ASSUMPTION.       121 

«  Her  father  in  the  foreground,  brown  and  brawny,  plumed  and 
painted, 
Er'ry  inch  a  kingly  savage,  with  his  scalp-knife  in  his  belt. 
Pointed  out  a  disUnt  valley  to  a  fair  New  England  stranger, 
Whose  negro  servant  near  them,  by  his  roaster's  trappings, 
knelt. 

"  aosely  watching,  like  a  panther,  her  velvet  eyes  half-open. 
The  little  Swa-nee  murmured  lo  the  trader's  wife,  apart : 
•  Brown  as  autumn  leaves,  my  father;  white  as  snow,  the  pale- 
faced  chieftain ; 
Black,  the  other,  as  the  storm-ctoud  ere  the  lightning  rends  its 

heart! 

« •  Tell  me,  woman,  wise  in  magic,  hath  Manitou  a  meaning 

When  He  painte  the  wr.rriors  of  the  nations,  white,  and 
L'own,  and  black  t ' 
—  The  traler'F  blue-eyed  helpmate  smiling  answered,  sideways 
leaning. 
As  she  shifted  to  her  bosom  the  baby  at  her  buck: 

"  •  Swa-nee,  it  is  a  legend,  by  the  Seminolet  narrated. 

Told  at  night  around  their  camp-fires,  where  the  trader's  rest 
hath  been : 
That  Manitou,  when  earth  was  new,  three  white-skinn'd  braves 
created, 
And  led  them  to  a  little  lake,  bidding  them  wash  therein. 

"•The  first  sprang  promptly  at  his  word,  and,  plunging,  came  out 
fidrer 
Than  when  he  entered;  but  his  bath  had  troubled  aU  the 

Uke; 
And  he  who  followed,  white  at  first,  was  stained  with  copp'riih 

laver; 
While  he  who  lingered  last,  canae  fiwrth  as  bhwk  as  lobm  could 
Bukel 


IT 


I 


122 


LOT  LESLIE'vS   folks. 


"•.Then,  Manitou  cast  down  upon  the  grass  before  the  bathen, 
Three  packages,  safe  hidden  in  the  bison's  swarthy  skin : 
And  bade  them  make  their  choice.    'Tis  said,  the  black  man 
seized  the  hugest, 
And  op'ning,  found  the  iron  spade,  the  hoe,  and  rake,  within. 

"•The  red  man  grasped  his  pack,  in  turn;  and  lo!  within  it,  hid- 
den, 
Were  fishing-rod  and  tomahawk,  were  bow  and  arrows  bright ; 
While,  within  the    snake-skin   wrappings  which,  at  last,  the 
Pale  Face  lifted. 
Were  ink-horn,  quill,  and  parchment— a  burden,  strangely 
light! 

"  <  So  thou  seest,  chieftain's  daughter ! '  laughed  the  Jwld  wife  of  the 
trader. 
As  she  sprang  upon  her  feet,  and  slung  the  baby  at  her  back : 
'Thou  seest,  little  Swa-nee,  that  Manitou  kath  meaning 
When  he  paints  your  warriors  brown,  our*  white,  and  others, 
black!'" 

Some  of  the  French  traders  clapped  their  hands 
in  praise  of  their  fellow,  as  he  finished  his  re- 
cital ;  but  most  of  the  Indians  sat  silent,  motion- 
less—staring ahead  of  them  either  sullenly  or 

stupidly. 

The  young  Huron  who  had  questioned  Brother 
Regis  scowled  askance  at  the  Canadian;  and 
Brother  La  Tour  seemed  uneasy  when  a  sturdy 
English  trader  (Henry  Alexander  by  name),  be- 
gan to  tell  the  company  about  his  visit  to  Fort 
Du  Quesne,  four  months  before. 

He  described,  in  the  Huron  tongue,  his  having 


the  bathert, 
arthy  skin : 
ihe  bUck  man 

nd  rake,  within. 

!  within  it,  hid- 

1  arrows  bright; 
ch,  at  last,  the 

irden,  strangely 

!  pold  wife  of  the 

»by  at  her  back : 

meaning 

rhite,  and  others, 

1  their  hands 
ished  his  re- 
lent, motion- 
sullenly  or 

>ned  Brother 
nadian;  and 
hen  a  sturdy 
)y  name),  be- 
visit  to  Fort 

le,  his  having 


THE  MISSION  OP  THE  AS8UMPTI0X.      128 

stood  upon  the  rampart  of  the  fort,  one  lovely 
summer  morning,  and  seen  the  kegs  of  bullets 
and  gunpowder  broken  open  by  the  haJf-orazy 
followers  of  Captain  Beau jeau— all  helping  them- 
selves at  wilL 

He  told  how  he  had  gone  with  Athanase,  the 
Huron,  to  the  dark  ravines  where  the  French  and 
Indians  crapped  Braddock  and  his  troops  on  that 
fatal  ninth  of  June. 

He  had  seen  the  splendid  columns  of  the  Brit- 
ish regulars,  in  their  scarlet  uniforms,  file  along 
the  narrow  path  by  the  Monongahela,  the  music 
playing  gaily,  and  the  sunlight  sparkling  on  their 
polished  bayonets.  There,  followed  the  noble 
band  of  Virginia  rangers,  headed  by  their  young 
leader,  George  Washington,  with  his  aids,  the 
gallant  Gage  and  Gates— all  afterwards  to  be- 
come famous  in  the  Eevolutionary  War. 

.  He  gave  a  thrilling  account  of  the  battle  in  the 
gloomy  ravine ;  and  his  voice  sank  almost  to  a 
whisper,  as  he  described  the  shocking  end  of  his 
countryman,  Braddock;  while  Washington,  (he 
said),  rode  through  the  dreadful  carnage,  calm  and 
unhurt,  although  he  saw  two  horses  killed  under 
him,  and  four  bullets  pierce  his  very  clothing. 

Timothy  felt  much  attracted  to  this  speaker. 
Small  wonder  at  it.  Henry  Alexander  was  really 
a  very  superior  man— college-bred,  and  wonder- 
fully informed,  ac  well,  by  extensive  travel. 


If 


124  LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 

His  tongue  had  a  winsome  sound ;  and  his  looks 
pleased  the  Yankee  more  than  those  of  any  he 
saw  about  him.  , 

He  had  some  Uttle  talk  with  hmi  m  Enghsh, 
before  Father  Peter  (who  had  been  going  about 
among  the  other  traders  and  hunters,  saying  a 
good  word,  here  and  there,  to  his  spiritual  ^il- 
dren),  came  to  fetch  Timothy  baxjk  to  the  Mis- 
sion house.  - 
Here  they  found  little  Willy  up,  and  dressed 
—looking  rather  pale  and  weak,  it  is  true,  but 
propped  with  pillows  in  the  easy-ohair  by  the 
fire,  and  quite  ready  for  his  dinner. 

Father  Armand  had  been  kindly  showing  him 
a  big  book,  full  of  colored  prints;  and  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  the  gentle  old  priest  had  com- 
pletely won  the  boy's  heart.  «        .    , 

At  table,  his  seat  was  beside  the  Superiors. 
He  listened  as  keenly  as  Timothy  to  the  talk  be- 
tween the  two  priests-his  perilous  life  among 
strangers  having  made  him  unusuaUy  observant 
for  a  child  of  his  age. 

Father  Peter  spoke  of  some  indifferent  matters 
at  the  Mission  store  and  at  the  Forge;  of  Ren6 
de  Couagne  and  Louis  St.  Ange,  the  noh  factors 
in  Montreal ;  and  of  messages  that  had  jwt  wme 
from  the  farm  at  Bois  BUn.o  (or  White  Wood)  as 
to  fowls  and  eggs. 
The  horses,  Major  and  White  Bade,  were  do- 


id  his  look! 
of  any  he 

in  Engliah, 
;oing  about 
•B,  saying  a 
iritoal  ohil* 
o  the  Mia- 

md  dressed 
is  true,  but 
lair  by  the 


owing  him 
and  it  was 
wt  had  com- 


>  Superior's; 

the  talk  be- 

I  life  among 

ly  observant 

nrent  matters 
>ge ;  of  Ren6 
)  noh  factors 
ad  just  oome 
ite  Wood)  as 

idc,  were  do- 


THE  MISSION   OF  THE   ASSUIIPTION.       186 

ing  well,  (he  said),  and  iSmtris,  the  mare,  was 
lively  as  ever. 

He  had  just  begun  to  tell  that  Charles  Parant, 
the  carpenter,  had  been  bespoken  to  make  a  new 
altar-rail  in  the  church,  two  closets  for  the  vest- 
ments and  linens  in  the  vestry,  and  a  couple  of 
chapels,  in  alcoves,  each  siie  the  main  altar, 
when,  after  a  soft  rap  at  the  door,  a  young  In- 
dian  girl  came  hurriedly  into  the  room. 

She  wore  a  skirt  and  sack  of  blue  flannel :  and 
a  large,  brass  crucifix  hung  about  her  neck. 

Her  face  was  so  beautiful,  and  her  slight  form 
so  modestly  graceful,  that,  at  the  first  glance, 
Willy  Leslie  thought  one  of  the  pictures  on  the 
wall— that  of  the  Loveliest  '^f  Women,  in  a  blue 
cloak— had  stepped  down  from  its  frame  to  stand 
before  them. 

" My  Father! "  she  said,  fixing  on  the  Superior 
her  large,  dark  eyes,  as  soft  and  liquid  as  a  forest 
fawn's ;  "  there  is  sorrow  in  the  lodge  of  I^igah 
wei  (my  mother).  Last  night,  Anne  Why-wathi- 
Irooch,  my  grandmother,  v/as  stricken  for  death. 
All  day  long,  she  has  called  for  tCre  Pierre ^" 

"  And  Pdre  Pierre  shall  go  to  her  at  once,"  in- 
terposed Father  Armand,  kindly:  "Is  your 
canoe  in  waiting,  Catharine  Tarbuki  ?  " 

« I  came  up  in  the  boat  of  Meloche,  the  friend 
of  Pontiac,"  said  the  girl,  as  Father  Peter  went 
quickly  from  the  room,  to  get  what  he  wanted 


UMiw 


^ 


K  f 

'•-  il 


it! 


196 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


from  the  church.  "  Meloohe  was  fishing  off  our 
rocks  this  morning.  He  waits  now  in  the  bay, 
my  Father,  to  take  us  back  to  the  village." 

"Go,  then,  my  child,"  said  the  Superior. 
"  Every  moment  is  precious.  Father  Peter  will 
meet  you  at  the  church  with  the  Viaticum  and 
the  holy  oils.  Make  ready  everything  decently 
for  him  at  home ;  and  may  our  dear  Lord  grant 
your  grandmother  the  grace  of  a  happy  death 
with  its  crown  of  everlasting  glory  I " 

"Amen,  my  Father,"  whispered  the  Indian 
girl,  solemnly;  and  Timothy  and  Willy  both 
thought  her  face  one  of  heavenly  beauty,  as 
she  dropped  upon  her  knees  at  the  Superior'a 
feet,  and,  with  arms  crossed  upon  her  breast, 
bowed  her  dark,  graceful  head  to  receive  his 
benediction. 

A  moment  more,  and  she  had  vanished,  noise- 
lessly as  a  lovely  dream. 


mm 


^ 


ng  off  our 
L  the  bay, 

ge." 

Superior. 
Peter  wUl 
kticum  and 
^  decently 
[x>rd  grant 
ippy  death 

bhe  Indian 
Villy  both 
beauty,  as 
Superior'a 
ber  breast, 
receive  his 

shed,  noiae- 


CHAPTER  X. 

BTBANOER8   FROM  THE  FOREST. 

Prudence  Skillet  was  trudging  along  the 
river-road  toward  the  forest,  stopping  every  now 
and  then,  to  poke  with  a  stout  sticlc  among  the 
bLhes,  o;  stopping,  to  look  closer  at  the  wild 
things  that  grew  in  her  path.  ,,,„„* 

Z  was  Marching  for  the  wild  mustard  plant^ 
or  for  a  native  root  that  resembled  the  horse- 

She'  had  a  very  good  knowledge  of  herbs,  and 
was  skiUed  in  their  use  among  the  sick. 

Once  (a  year  before),  she  had  nursed  old  Cap- 
tain Wilson  safely  through  a  stroke  of  apoplexy; 
and  now,  having  seen  Mary  Tarbuki's  aged 
mother,  Anne,  drop  down  in  the  lodge,  as  if 
struck  by  lightning,  she  remembered  that  hot 
mustard  foot-baths  and  neck-poultices  had  been 
the  first  things  to  relieve  the  captain's  head. 

Leaving  Mary  and  Catharine  to  watch  beside 
the  bUnd  grandmother,  who  lay,  breathing  heav- 
ily, upon  a  bed  of  skins  on  the  lodg^floor,  she 
set  Faith  and  Hope  to  kindUng  a  fire,  gypsy- 
fashion,  and  swinging  over  it  a  big  pot  of  river 

water. 

van 


1 


SE 


rt* 


f' 


198 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


While  this  was  coming  to  a  boil,  Prudence 
took  her  stick,  and  went  out  to  hunt  for  the 
needed  herbs. 

She  looked  a  queer  figure  in  her  old  kersey 
coat,  and  short  yellow  skirt;  but  her  rusty, 
broken  shoes  had  given  pUce  to  a  decent  pair  of 
moccasins,  made  for  her  by  Catharine's  skilful 

fingers. 

She  wore  a  shabby  straw  hat  that  bad  once 
been  Faith's,  and  under  it,  her  mob^sap— her 
thin,  dry,  dun-colored  hair  being  drawn  up  on 
top  of  her  head  in  a  Uttle  knot,  which  she  called 
her  "  peeled  onion." 

A  cheery  soul,  was  this  valiant  Yankee  woman. 
She  had  proved  herself  a  very  useful  servant. 
She  was  so  clear-headed,  as  well  as  of  such  f. 
handy,  thrifty  turn,  that  ahe  was  much  thougiit 
of  by  her  mistresses. 

She  had  a  great  deal  of  what  New  Englanders 
call  "faculty,"  and,  when  not  working  for  Mary 
and  Catharine,  was  often  in  demand  in  the  tribe 
'  to  miake  shirte  and  cans  for  the  young  Wyan- 
dots.  She  also  knittC  stockings  for  some  of 
the  squaws  who  could  ariord  to  pay  for  it ;  and 
cut  out  aprons  for  them  like  the  gay  calico  one 
she  had  worn  when  captured  on  Swan  Island. 

For  these,  and  other  little  jobs,  she  received  a 
few  shillings,  which  Mary  allowed  her  to  keep 
for  her  own.    She  was  ghid  to  use  them,  at 


4^ 


Prudence 
it  for  the 

old  kersey 
her  rusty, 
ent  pair  of 
le's  skilful 

rt  had  once 

Kjap  —  her 

wn  up  on 

she  called 

cee  woman, 
ul  servant. 
I  of  such  f. 
ich  thougnt 

Englanders 
g  for  Mary 
in  the  tribe 
ung  Wyan- 
br  some  of 
for  it ;  and 
7  calico  one 
1  Island. 
B  received  a 
ler  to  keep 
ie  them,  at 


BTRAX0KR8   FROM   THE  TOREST. 


199 


times,  in  buying  from  tlio  hunters,  fruits,  fish, 
and  small  dead  birds,  to  tempt  the  appetite  of 
\H)or  young  Hope  who  was  delicate,  and  more 
(luinty  in  her  tastes  than  Faith. 

Prudence  had  pushed  her  way  somewhat  into 
the  thick  of  the  forest,  before  she  came  upon 
what  she  needed. 

She  sang,  as  she  went,  a  shrill,  high  snatch  of 
an  old  Puritan  hymn. 

She  was  stooping,  at  last,  over  a  bed  of  wild 
mustard,  filling  her  apron  with  its  dried,  pun- 
gent leaves  and  pods,  and  looking  the  while,  less 
like  a  Christian  woman  gathering  healing  herbs 
than  a  witch  culling  simples  for  an  incantation, 
when  a  sweet  low  voice,  at  her  elbow,  ques- 
tioned her  in  French  : 

"  Can  you  show  us  the  way  to  the  blockhouse 
of  the  French  traders  ?  " 

"  Hey  ?  "  grunted  Prudence,  who  only  under- 
stood a  few  words  of  the  language :  "  can't  you 
say  it  as  well  in  Fnglish  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  good  woman,"  was  the  reply  in 
English,  in  the  same  sweet  voice ;  and  turning. 
Prudence  looked  upon  a  most  unusual  sight. 

One  of  the  loveliest  ladies  she  had  ever  be- 
held stood  there  before  her  in  the  dim  forest ;  and 
at- her  side,  was  another  woman,  evidently  a  serv- 
ing-maid. 

The  lady  was  richly  dressed  in  black  velvet 


w 


130 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


and  sables— a  hood  of  mink-skin  softly  framing, 
and  admirably  setting  off  her  fair  and  brilliant 
complexion. 

Her  eyes  were  large,  and  of  a  velvety  bhick- 
ness ;  and  a  few  stray  ringlets  of  red-gold  hair 
curled  upon  her  broad,  white  brow. 

The  pathetic  smile  upon  her  sweet  mouth  was 
like  moonlight  on  a  rose.  In  spite,  however,  of 
the  elegance  of  her  appearance,  something  in 
the  lady's  face,  something  in  its  coloring,  and  in 
that  certain  sadness  of  expression,  brought  back 
to  Prudence  a  memory  of  her  lost  mistress— of 
Lot  Leslie's  comely  wife. 

It  was  a  great  joy  to  the  poor  Yankee  woman 
to  hear  her  own  tongue  once  more  from  so 
lovely  a  mouth. 

The  third  woman  seemed  to  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  English,  for  she  looked  mutely  and  ques- 
tioningiy  at  her  companions,  as  they  talked, 
watching  closely  the  motion  of  their  lips.  She 
was  dark-skinned,  and  had  a  quiet,  sensible  face. 
She  wore  a  long  cloak  of  russet  cloth,  (its  hood 
being  drawn  over  her  head),  and  carried  a  good- 
sized  travelling-bag. 

"Whence  come  ye  both?"  asked  Prudence, 

surprise  and  curiosity  making  her  forget  a,ll  else. 

"  From  the  camp  of  the  Pottawattamies,  aerois 

the  river,"  repUed  the  lady.   "  My  husband  and 

I  had  business  with  the  tribe."    (She  sighed 


Ily  framing, 
|nd  brilliant 

vety  black- 
ed-gold  hair 

mouth  was 
however,  of 
)mething  in 
>ring,  and  in 
rougbt  back 
mistress — of 

nkee  woman 
>re  from  so 

e  no  knowl- 
)ly  and  qaes- 
bhey  talked, 
lir  lips.  She 
sensible  face. 
)th,  (its  hood 
rried  a  good- 

d  Pmdence, 
rget  all  else, 
imies,  aoroSB 
lusband  and 
(She  sighed 


6TKANOEU8  FROM  THE  FOREST. 


181 


heavily  as  she  spoke.)  *'  We  stopped  there  for  a 
day.  This  morning,  one  of  their  Indians  rowed 
us  over  in  his  canoe.  He  was  a  lazy,  tricksome 
fellow.  Instead  of  landing  us,  as  we  had  charged 
him,  at  the  village  of  the  Wyandots,  he  debarked 
us  in  these  woods,  under  pretence  that  his  boat 
was  leaking ;  and  then  made  his  way  back  with- 
out us,  heedless  of  our  pitiful  outcries." 

"'When  thou  passeth  through  the  waters,  I 
will  be  with  thee,  and  through  the  rivers,  they 
shall  not  overflow  thee,' "  muttered  Prudence  in 
her  Scriptural  fashion. 

The  lady  stared  at  her,  as  at  one  whose  wits 
are  astray ;  but,  seeing  that  the  strange  woman 
listened  to  her,  nevertheless,  with,  seemingly,  the 
keenest  interest,  she  went  on  with  her  narrative. 
« We  have  wandered  all  day  in  the  forest,  seek- 
ing a  way  out.  We  were  bound  for  the  block- 
house, hereabouts ;  but  the  wood  is  so  thick,  we 
quite  despaired  of  reaching  it.  Some  hours  ago, 
my  husband  left  us  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a 
fallen  tree.  I  was  too  exhausted  to  go  further. 
He  proposed  to  follow  the  river  road  to  the  open, 
telling  me  he  would  soon  return  to  fetch  us  out. 
He  ha»  never  returned/  .  .  .  We  grew 
afraid,  after  awhile,  of  those  lonely  wilds,  with 
their  chances  of  prowling  beasts  or  savages.  We 
Kvoee,  and  proojeded  along  the  path  whereby  my 
husband  bad  disappeared.    We  had  not  walked 


11 


182 


LOT  LESLIE'S    FOLKS. 


far,  before  we  heard,  thanks  to  God !  a  woniai's 
voice  singing  in  the  distance.  It  was  a  joyful 
sound.  We  followed  it  quickly,  and  it  led  us  on 
to  you,  ray  good  woman,  culling  simples,  here,  at 
the  edge  of  the  forest." 

"♦Thus  saith  the  Lord,'"  quoted  Prudence, 
taking  kindly  in  her  own  the  gloved  hand  of  the 
lady:  "'refrain  thy  voice  frdm  weeping,  and 
thine  eyes  from  tears,  for  thy  work  shall  be  re- 
warded, and  they  shall  come  again  from  the  land 
of  the  enemy  I ' " 

"  Heaven  grant  it  1  heaven  speedily  grant  it ! " 
cried  the  stranger,  fervently,  as  she  clasped 
her  hands,  and  raised  her  tearful  eyes  to  the  blue 
above  them,  in  a  burst  of  almost  wild  emotion : 
"  Good  woman,  you  know  not  all  the  hope,  all 
the  blessed  promise,  your  words  would  give  me. 
But  my  husband—?  Think  you,  he  has  safely 
reached  the  blockhouse  ?  Show  us  but  the  way, 
and  my  maid  and  I  wiU  go  thither  at  once." 

"Come  with  me,  mistress,"  said  the  cheery 
Yankee  woman :  "  the  road  you  seek  is  close  at 
hand.  Were  it  not  that  old  Whitewash-Brush  is 
deadly  sick  at  home,  I'd  go  with  you  myself,  every 
step  of  the  way." 

"  May  our  dear  Lord  reward  your  kindness ! " 
returned  the  sweet  lady,  gratefully,  adding: 
"  You  live,  then,  good  woman,  among  the  Wyan- 
dots?" 


a,  woniaa  8 
IS  a  joyful 
t  led  us  on 
es,  here,  at 

Prudence, 
sand  of  the 
eping,  and 
shall  be  re- 
>m  the  land 

grant  it ! " 
he  clasped 
to  the  blue 
d  emotion : 
le  hope,  all 
Id  give  me. 
I  has  safely 
•ut  the  way, 
once." 
the  cheery 
k.  is  close  at 
^h-Brush  is 
lyself,  every 

kindness ! " 
ly,  adding: 
J  the  Wyan- 


STRANGER8  FROM  THK  FOREST.  133 

««Woe  is  me  that  my  banishment  is  pro- 
longed!'" quoted  Prudence  from  king  David: 
« I L  m,  indeed,  a  prisoner  and  a  slave  among  the 
savages.  *  Turn  our  captivity,  O  Lord,  as  a  tor- 
rent in  the  south!'  But,  here  is  your  road  to 
the  blockhouse,"-she  concluded,  with  one  of 
those  sudden  changes  from  the  sublime  to  the 
commonplace,  which  the  lady  found  so  extraor- 
dinary, and  almost  hiughable. 

There  was  no  sign  of  a  smile  on  her  faxse,  how- 
ever, as  she  turned  back  to  clutch  the  Yankee 
woman's  wrist,  whispering  mgerly  and  hoarsely : 
"Are  there  any  captive  children  among  the 
Wyandots  ?-any  pretty  little  white  girls  in  your 
village,  good  woman?"  , -r^   . 

"What's  that  to  you?"  questioned  Prudence, 
cautiously ;  then,  seeing  the  shadow  of  disap- 
pointment that  f eU  over  the  lovely  face  before 
her,  she  melted  enough  to  add :  ^ 

"Well  ril  not  dispute  but  what  there s  a 
couple  Jf  mighty  nice  little  white  gals  in  the 
lodge  of  Mary  Tarbuki ! "  .,        .  „ 

The  lady  turned  irresolutely,  as  if  to  follow 
Prudence  at  once  to  her  dwelling-place ;  but  the 
other  dark,  quiet  woman  laid  a  detaining  hand 
on  her  arm,  murmuring  something  m  French,  as 
she  pointed  down  the  road  to  the  blo«.Aouse 

The  lady  yielded  to  her  maid's  advice,  what- 
ever it  might  have  been ;  but,  seemingly  with  an 


■Ill 


134 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


effort.  She  cast  a  backward,  plewling  glance  at 
Prudence,  who  watched  with  interest  the  two 
strangers  hurry  through  the  path  toward  the 
lake,  until  they  disappeared  around  a  turn  of  the 

read. 

"  She's  got  something  on  her  mind,  and  no  mis- 
take, r'  P.  pretty  lady  1  and  that  yellow-skinu'd 
demmyzeU  knows  her  secret,  and's  got  the  upper 
hand  of  her ! "  muttered  the  Yankee  woman  to 
herself,  as  she  pushed  her  way  home  to  Mary's 

lodge. 

The  curtain  of  skins  was  thrust  aside  at  the 
moment  she  reached  it,  and  little  Hope  Leslie  ran 
out  to  welcome  her. 

She  had  news  to  tell  her,  as  well. 

The  blind  grandmother  had  taken  such  a  dread- 
ful turn  towards  noon,  that  Catharine  had  been 
sent  to  fetch  the  priest  from  the  Huron  Mission. 

Pierre  Meloche  happened  to  be  fishing  that 
morning,  off  the  river-bank :  so  he  had  oflfered  to 
take  Catharine  across  in  his  boat.  They  were  to 
bring  the  priest  back  with  them  at  once. 

Miss  Skillet's  heavy  brows  lowered  at  the 
news.  She  had  been  bred  a  Puritan,  and  she 
hated  a  Jesuit,  (although  she  had  never  seen  one), 
as  the  devil  is  said  to  hate  holy  water.  That 
Evil  One  saw  that  the  good  woman  had  been 
much  moved  and  edified,  of  late,  by  the  saintly 
lives  of  Mary  and  Catharine;  and  he  now  set 


STRANOKRS   FROM  THE   FORKST. 


135 


glance  at 

the  two 

ivard  the 

irn  of  the 

id  no  mis- 
w-skinn'd 
the  upper 
woman  to 
to  Mary's 

ide  at  the 
Leslie  ran 


2h  a  dread- 
I  had  been 
)n  Mission, 
ihing  that 
I  oflfered  to 
ey  were  to 
ie. 

■ed  at  the 
Q,  and  she 
r  seen  one), 
iter.  That 
had  been 
the  saintly 
\e  now  set 


himself  to  stir  up  within  her  a  great  dislike  and 
dread  of  the  coming  priest. 

Recalling  all  the  ugly  stories  about  Papists  and 
priestcraft,  she  had  heard  in  her  narrow  child- 
hood in  the  Massachusetts  colony— long  since 
forgotten— she  went  slowly  into  the  lodge. 

She  found  that  Faith  had  kept  up  a  roaring 
fire,  over  which  the  big  water-pot  was  boiling 
merrily.  She  hastened  to  steep  the  herbs  she 
had  gathered:  and  was  soon  busy  binding  the 
hot  poultices  to  the  nape  of  the  sick  woman's 
neck,  to  her  wrists,  and  the  soles  of  her  icy  feet. 

Before  long,  the  fiery  plasters  began  to  draw 
the  congested  blood  from  the  sufferer's  brain, 
bringing  back  to  her  consciousness  and  imperfect 

Instructing  her  daughter  to  keep  her  well- 
covered  with  the  warmest  of  buffalo  skins,  and 
to  renew  the  poultices  until  blisters  formed 
under  them.  Prudence  slipped  away  to  find 
Faith  and  Hope. 

It  was  close  u  the  hour  when  Catharine 
might  be  expected  to  return  with  the  priest 
from  the  Mission ;  and  Miss  Skillet's  whole  heart 
was  set  upon  getting  her  two  darlings  out  of  the 
way  of  his  supposed  Satanic  influence. 

The  children  were  busy  at  the  fire,  boiling 
hominy  and  bear's  meat  in  a  kettle,  for  the  noon- 
day meal. 


iPP 


136 


L'»T  Leslie's  folks. 


.  Prudence  quietly  tof*^'  their  place.    Bidding 

them  eat  quickly  a  hearty  dinner,  she  sent  them 

both  off  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  to  gather  the 

dry  branches  and  pine-cones  for  firing. 

She  had  time  to  whisper  to  them  before  they 

went:  j  i.       • 

"  If  you  chance  to  meet  Catharine  and  the  pnest 
on  the  road,  ha/ve  nothing  to  say  to  him  !  Dread- 
ful things  have  happened  to  them  that  had  deal- 
ings with  Popish  priests.  Oh !  my  dearies,  I'd 
rather  follow  you  to  your  graves,  and  never  see 
you  more  in  this  world,  than  have  you  fall  under 
the  power  of  a  Jesuit ;  for  a  Jesuit  will  ruin  you, 
body  and  soul  1 " ' 

FrJghtened  by  the  strange  look  of  dread  and 
mystery  that  settled,  with  these  words,  on  the 
face  of  their  old  frienH  and  care-taker,  the  little 
girls  hurried  away  towards  the  forest,  and  were 
out  of  sight  of  the  lodge  by  the  time  Catharine 
and  Father  Peter  entered  at  its  door. 

Prudence  stared  at  the  priest  with  keen  interest 
and  curiosity,  in  spite  of  her  repugnance  to  his 

cloth.  ,  , 

"  This  is  our  slave,  wow  jper«, —  Wchsca  AmMky 
said  Catharine,  waving  her  hand  toward  the 
white  woman,  and  calling  her  by  her  Indian  title, 

I  The  actual  words  of  a  New  England  captive  among  the  Indian* 
to  her  son,  when  he  told  her  that  a  Jesuit  priest  had  oflfered  to  buy 
him  from  the  savages. 


Bidding 
sent  them 
gather  the 

before  they 

id  the  priest 
n !  Dread- 
at  had  deal- 
dearies,  I'd 
id  never  see 
m  fall  under 
ill  ruin  you, 

>f  dread  and 
ords,  on  the 
rer,  the  little 
!st,  and  were 
ne  Catharine 

keen  interest 
l^nanoe  to  his 

i*ea  Amisk" 

toward  the 

>  Indian  title, 

mong  the  Indiant 
ad  offered  to  buy 


BTRANOKRS  FROM  THE  FOREST. 


187 


"White  Beaver," — a  :;drae,  well-earned  by  the 
Yankee  servant's  untiring  industry. 

Prudence,  compelled  by  the  dignity  of  the 
Jesuit's  tall,  slender  figure,  and  the  high-bred 
intelligence  of  his  grave,  gentle  face — (or  was  it 
by  something  higher  and  holier?)  dropped  him  a 
curtsey,  as  it  were,  against  her  will. 

The  priest  took  no  notice  of  the  salute,  or  of 
her  who  gave  it.  His  eyelids  were  downcast : 
his  lips  moving  rapidly  in  whispered  prayer. 

Catharine  had  forgotten,  for  the  moment,  that 
he  bore  with  him,  hidden  in  his  bosom,  the  Holy 
of  Holies,  the  Eucharistic  God,  before  Whom  all 
the  earth  should  keep  silence. 

Her  mother  was  approaching  them  with  the 
blessed  candle.  Confused  and  sonowful  for  her 
forgetfulness,  (prompted  even  though  it  had 
been,  by  her  zeal  to  bring  an  erring  soul  to  the 
notice  of  the  true  Shepherd  of  the  flock),  the 
Indian  girl  took  the  freshly-lighted  taper  from 
Mary's  hand,  and  meekly  led  Father  Peter  to  the 
side  of  her  dying  grandmother. 

The  keen  spiritual  sense  of  the  old  squaw  had 
already  recognized  the  presence  of  her  hidden 
Lord. 

Supported  against  her  daughter's  breast,  the 
blind  woman  stretched  forth  her  arms  toward 
the  approaching  priest,  with  an  indescribable 
look  of  love  and  longing  on  her  dark,  wrinkled 


w 


188 


LOT   LESLIE'S   FOLKS 


face-a  look,  so  full  of  heaven,  that  it  brought 
Prudence  Skillet  to  her  knees  in  her  distant, 
shady  corner  of  the  lodge,  as  if  an  angel  of 
God  had  smitten  her  down  with  his  sword  of 

fire-  ,  J  X         « 

Those  eyelftss  sockets,  uplifted,  seemed  to  gaze 

upon  some  Object  (unseen  to  all,  save  them)-- 
some  Person  or  Thing  so  beautiful,  so  bTUliant, 
that  the  mystic  radiance  of  its  beauty  overflowed 
upon  the  old  squaw's  dusky,  homely  face,  and 
transfigured  it  with  light  and  loveliness. 

WeU  might  poor  old  Anne  Why-wMh'Orooch 
thus  wear  the  likeness  of  a  seraph,  adoring  God 
in  His  unveiled  glory ! 

Hers  was  a  soul  of  singular  hoUness  and  pun^. 
The  dean  of  heart  are  ever  blessed  in  seeing  God ; 
and  she  had  wrved  Him  fifty  years  from  her 
conversion,  without  soiling  by  serious  sm  the 
white  robe  of  her  baptism. 

Her  very  blindness  was  a  proof  of  her  martyr- 
like fidelity  to  her  faith ;  for  her  fierce  Mohawk 
mother,  a  very  Jezubel  of  aborigines,  learning  m 
the  early  days  of  the  Missions,  that  her  young 
daughter  listened  more  readily  to  the  teachinp 
of  the  Black  Robe  than  to  the  threats  of  the 
medicine-man  of  the  tribe,  plucked  out  her  eyes 
with  her  own  strong  and  cruel  claws,  and  flung 
them  to  the  dogs  of  the  lodge. 
«  Now,  find  your  way,  if  you  can,  to  the  Blaok 


it  brought 

)r  distant, 

[  asgel  of 

sword  of 

led  to  gaze 
re  them) — 
o  brilliant, 
overflowed 
r  face,  and 
ss. 

lashirbrooch 
loring  God 

and  purity, 
leeing  God ; 
■8  from  her 
>as  sin  the 

her  martyr- 
rce  Mohawk 
,  learning  in 
i  her  young 
he  teachings 
reats  of  the 
out  her  eyes 
m,  and  flung 

to  the  Black 


STBAlfOERS   FROM  THE   FOKKST. 


180 


Robe,  and  the  camp  of  his  Manitou ! "  shrieked 
the  unnatural  fury  to  her  victim. 

But,  exceedingly  great  and  sweet  was  the  re- 
Avard  of  the  young  confessor. 

Into  the  dreadful  darkness  that  fell,  that  hour, 
upon  her  bodily  sight,  there  came  a  wonderful 
Light,  that  never  afterwards  wavered  or  van- 
ished. 

She  needed  not,  henceforth,  the  brightness  of 
sun,  or  moon,  or  star.  She  missed  not  the  light 
of  torch  or  camp-fire ;  for  the  glory  of  the  living 
God  enlightened  her  soul :  and  night  could  be  no 
more  for  her,  who  walked  ever  in  the  unearthly 
splendors  of  the  Lamb. 

It  was  said  of  her  in  the  tribe :  "  Why-^totuhi- 
brooch  sees,  day  and  night,  the  God  of  the  Black 
Robe ! " — and  her  very  mother  grew  afraid,  in 
time,  of  that  strange,  steady  radiance  that  seemed 
to  shine  constantly  from  out  her  daughter's  meek, 
sightless  face. 

She  was  glad  when  the  Christian  chief  of  the 
Wyandots  asked  her  for  his  bride.  She  rejoiced 
when  he  carried  her  off  to  his  lodge  on  the  banks 
of  the  Detroit. 

iTtf-o-M-MM,  as  the  chief  was  lalled,  had  been 
diz«oted  in  a  dream  to  the  "Blind  Lily  of  the 
Mohawks,'*— a  shining  figure,  all  in  white,  ap- 
pearing to  him  in  sleep,  and  telling  him  that  if 
he  could  but  win  the  gentle  Anne  for  his  wife, 


.^^ 


nm 


140 


LOT   LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


joy,  peace,  and  plenty  would  dwell  forever  more 
in  his  lonely  lodge. 

She  had  provetl  ♦  j  him,  indeed,  a  sweet  and 
faithful  e-wuse-ftUing  his  life  with  countless 
blessings,  and  bearing  him  many  children  of 
whom  Mary,  (or  Ond-Me^)  was  the  last  survivor. 

And  now,  she  was  making  ready  to  join  him 
in  that  Better  Land,  to  which  Ho-a-is-ens  had 
journeyed  alone,  fuU  of  the  peace  of  Go<l,  ten 

years  before. 

At  a  sign  from  Father  Peter,  Mary  Tarbuki 
arose  from  her  knees,  her  lovely  face  wet  with 
tears,  and  quietly  motioned  Catharine  and  Pru- 
dence to  follow  her  out  from  the  lodge. 

The  priest  was  .  left  alone  with  the  dying 
woman ;  but  they  had  not  long  to  wait  before 
the  Jesuit  summoned  them  to  return. 

The  old  squaw's  peace  with  God  had  been 
made  at  her  girlhood's  baptism,  half  a  century 
gone— nevermore  to  be  brokon  upon  earth. 

Prudence  SkUlet  had  not  intended  to  go  back 
to  the  lodge  whUe  the  priest  remained  in  it ;  but 
such  a  burning  desire  possessed  her,  unaccount- 
ably,  to  look  again  upon  that  wonderful  light 
and  beauty  shining  from  the  sick  woman's  face, 
that  she  felt  forced  to  return  to  her  with  Mary 
and  Catharine. 

She  felt  InceLsed  at  herself  for  her  weakness, 
as  she  knelt  down  in  that  dim  comer,  where  the 


•ever  more 

Bweet  and 
countless 
ihildren  of 
it  survivor, 
o  join  him 
•is-en«  liad 
God,  ten 

ry  Tarbuki 

e  wet  with 

te  and  Pru- 

the  dying 
wait  before 

1  had  been 
if  a  century 
earth. 

I  to  go  back 
d  in  it ;  but 
,  unaccount- 
derful  light 
Oman's  ^e, 
f  with  Mary 

»r  weiaknesi, 
r,  where  the 


STRANOKR8    FROM   THE   FORE8T. 


141 


blind  woman  had  been  wont  to  sit  constantly  in 
her  days  of  health.  *'  This,"  she  thought  in  her 
heart, "  this  must  be  part  of  the  spell  of  their 
Popish  priestcraft.  It's  rank  sorcery.  I'm  main 
glad  I  sent  the  children  away  to  the  forest ! " 

A  low  murmur  in  an  unknown  tongue  drew 
her  attention  towards  the  rough  couch  of  the 
dying  woman. 

Beside  it,  knelt  Father  Peter  holding  up  before 
Anne's  sightless  eyes,  a  small  white  Wafer,  the 
sight  of  which  madb  the  flesh  of  Prudence  Skil- 
let creep  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  awe 
and  mystery.  All  the  more,  because  she  saw 
that  Mary  and  Catharine  adored  It,  prostrate  on 
the  ground,  with  their  faces  pressed  to  the 
earthen  floor. 

Two  texts  from  her  favorite  Scriptures  came 
into  her  mind  as  she  watched  them — one  from 
the  Lamentations  of  Jeremias :  "  He  shall  put  his 
mouth  in  the  dust,  if  so  there  may  be  hope " ; 
the  other,  from  Daniel  when  that  prophet  saw,  in 
vision,  the  Angel  of  God,  and  heard  from  his  lips 
the  revelation  of  the  Lord :  **  I  heard  the  voice 
of  his  words,  and  when  I  heard,  I  lay  in  con- 
sternation upon  my  face,  and  my  face  was  close 
to  the  ground." 

Bet  oh!  the  shining  rapture  on  the  brow  of 
the  aged  squaw,  when  the  priest  laid  the  little 
snowy  Wafer  upon  her  trembling  tongue ! 


* 


142 


LOT   LKSLIK'fl    F<»LKa. 


As  if  daaded  by  a  heavenly  light,  the  white 
slave  in  the  corner  held  her  hands  before  her 
eyes,  from  which  a  flood  of  tears  was  pouring, 
and  sobbed  softly  to  herself  wit>  a  sort  of 
stranire,  wondering  envy. 

What  was  that  little  white  Object,  that  called 
forth  from  these  poor  Indians  such  an  excess  of 
profound  worship,  such  an  ecstasy  of  gkd  adora- 

tion?  .,,    . 

The  Yankee  woman  found  it  impossible  to  an- 
swer this  question.  i  „*  *ka 

When  she  took  courage  again  to  look  at  tne 
sick  woman,  the  last  anointing  had  begun,  l-ro- 
dence  watched  the  priest,  praying,  touch  with 
holy  oil,  the  eyes. and  ears,  mouth  and  nostrUs, 
hands  and  feet  of  the  old  squaw;  but  she  wa« 
wholly  unprepared  for  the  startling  circui  .stance 

that  followed.  ., 

Father  Peter  had  not  yet  put  back  the  oil- 
stocks  into  their  case,  and  Mary  Tarbd^  was 
just  about  to  rcKKJver  with  the  fur  rob^  the 
naked  feet  of  Why-wmhirhroocK  when  the  dying 
woman  sprang  up  from  her  couch,  and  stood 
erect  before  them  all. 

With  face  and  arms  upraised  to  heaven,  m  a 
gesture  of  unconscious  tragedy,  she  oned  aloud 
in  the  Indian  tongue : 

«I  am  curedl  I  am  curedl  The  Lord  my 
God  hath  delivered  me,  in  His  mercy,  from  the 


'■'"'^i^-^-^f^'^if^^^^,. 


1,  the  white 

before  her 

voB  pouring, 

a  Bort  of 

t,  that  called 

an  excess  of 

f  glad  adora- 

ofisible  to  an- 

o  look  at  the 
bfigan.  Pru- 
,  touch  with 
and  nostrils, 
;  but  she  was 
;  circui  iStanoe 

back  the  oil- 

Tarbuki  was 

fur  robes  the 

hen  the  dying 

ch,  and  stood 

x>  heaven,  in  a 
he  cried  aloud 

The  Lord  my 
lercy,  from  the 


8TBANOER8   FKOlf  THE  FOREST. 


148 


shadow  of  death,  and  the  chill  darkness  of  the 
grave  1 " 

"  Give  thanks  to  the  Almighty  Physician,  my 
dear  children  1 "  said  the  trembling  voice  of  the 
priest,  as  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  with  the  three 
Indian  women:  "Give  thanks,  with  all  your 
hearts,  for  the  wonder  God  hath  wrought.  It  is 
written :  •  The  prayer  of  faith  shall  save  the  sick 
man,  and  the  Lord  shall  raise  him  up.' " 

Whilst  he  began  to  recite  the  Te  Deum^  softly, 
yet  with  deepest  feeling,  Prudence  Skillet,  half- 
suffocated  by  the  strange  choking  at  her  throat, 
rushed  for  the  door  of  the  lodge. 

She  felt  she  must  reach  the  open  air,  or 
smother  on  the  spot. 

Her  brain  was  daze^',  stunned,  by  all  she  had 
seen  and  heard.  What  awful  lower  was  this 
that  could  raise  even  the  dying  to  life  and 
health? 

As  she  thrust  aside  the  curtain  at  the  door,  she 
ran  against  Faith  and  Hope  Leslie,  returning  to 
the  lodge  with  their  bundles  of  firewood. 

Behind  them,  pressed  forward  two  other  female 
figures. 

Prudence  knew  them,  at  a  glance,  as  the 
strange  women  she  had  met  that  morning  in  the 
forest. 

The  beautiful  lady  was  deadly  pale  in  her 
black  velvet  and  sables.    She  caught  wildly  at 


144 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


Prudence,  exclaiming  in  something  between  a 
sob  and  a  scream : 

"  My  husband  has  not  returned !  He  must  be 
lost  in  the  forest !  What  shall  I  do,  good  woman, 
what   shaU    I   do?    Where   shall    I   turn  for 

help?" 

The  face  of  the  Yankee  woman  blazed  with  a  fire 
that  waa  almost  that  of  insanity.  She  was  indeed 
full  of  that  madness  which  comes  to  people  of 
narrow  experience  when  they  look,  for  the  first 
time,  upon  the  startling  vijonders  of  divine  power 
and  mercy. 

She  seized  the  strange  lady  by  the  shoulders, 
and  pushed  her  vehemently  towards  the  door  of 
the  lodge,  crying  out  with  passionate  energy : 

«'Iu,  with  you,  my  lady  I  in,  with  you,  and 
look  upon  the  dead  who  have  come,  this  day,  to 
life  1  *  The  bitterness  of  death  is  passed.'  ♦  Why 
art  thou  sorrowful,  O  my  soul?  And  why  dost 
thou  disquiet  me  ? '  Where  should  you  turn  for 
help  but  to  the  Man  in  there,  the  Black  Robe, 
who  worketh  miracles— who  healeth  the  sick 
with  a  touch  ?  " 


g 


between  a 


He  must  be 
good  woman, 
I    turn  for 

bzedwithafire 

he  was  indeed 

to  people  of 

for  the  first 

divine  power 

the  shoulders, 
ds  the  door  of 
ite  energy : 
nth  yon,  and 
le,  this  day,  to 
massed.'  *Why 
A.nd  why  dost 
i  you  turn  for 
9  Black  Robe, 
ileth  the  sick 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Timothy  Grindstone  had  found  the  Mission- 
store  of  the  Jesuits  a  very  entertaining  place. 

Leaving  little  Willy  quite  happy  and  at  home 
with  Father  Armand,  in  the  big  easy-chair  beside 
the  fire,  the  brave  Swan  Islander  made  his  way, 
alone,  after  dinner,  to  the  workshop  of  Brother 
La  Tour,  and  ofFered  to  help  Brother  Regis  at 
the  counters. 

It  was  an  ide  hour,  when  there  was  little  to  be 
done.  Few  of  the  traders  or  hunters  had  yet 
come  in  from  their  noonday  meal;  and  when 
Timothy  had  finished  the  little  chores  Brother 
Regis  had  laid  out  for  him,  he  found  himself 
resting  on  a  bale  of  blankets  beside  the  English- 
man, Alexander,  whose  fascinating  talk  had  so 
pleased  and  interested  him,  that  morning. 

"  It  does  me .  good,"  said  he  in  a  low  voice : 
"to  meet  one  of  my  own  kind,  and  hear  the 
music  of  an  English  voice.  I'm  sick  of  the  jab- 
bering of  these  rascally  redskins ;  and  the  French 
lingo  of  the  others  drives  me  wild  ! " 

"  Have  a  care,"  whispered  Alexander :  **■  these 
145 


I 


U6 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


are  dangerous  words.  I,  myself,  am  only  here  on 
sufferance.  If  it  weren't  for  the  priests,  these 
Indians  would  soon  make  short  work  of  us  both. 
Yet,  with  all  its  risks  and  hardships,  I  like  the 
wild  life  of  the  forest.  It  must  be  the  blood  of 
my  Indian  forefathers  stirring  in  ray  veins." 

"Your  'Indian  forefathers'?"  echoed  Grind- 
stone, in  dismay.  "  Aren't  you,  then,  an  EngUsh- 
raan  of  Englishmen,  born  and  bred  ?  " 

"  For  many  generations— yes,"  returned  his 
companion,  striking  his  pocket-flint  for  a  light 
for  his  pipe:  "but,  more  than  two  hundred  yenrs 
ago,  a  younj,-  Florida  squaw,  Wacissa,  was  wed- 
ded to  my  ancestor,  Juan  Ortiz.  Worse  and 
worse,  you  think  of  it,  eh?"  (he  added  with  a 
pleasant  laugh) :  "  Spanish  on  one  side,  Seminole 
on  the  other— a  queer  mixture  it  is,  and  a  strange 
story,  my  man.     »Vould  you  care  to  hear  it  ?  " 

«'  That,  would  I,"  returned  Timothy,  heartily : 
"and  many  thanks  to  you,  comrade,  for  the  tell- 
ing. We  can  be  quite  free  in  our  talk,  I  take  it, 
seeing  that  no  one  about  here  understands  Eng- 
lish but  our  two  selves." 

«  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  cautioned  Alex-, 
ander,  with  a  wary  glance  around  him.  "But 
it's  not  much  for  others  to  know,  even  if  they 
chance  to  overhear  me,  that,  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord,  1528,  Pamphilo  de  Narvaez  of  the  isle  of 
Cuba  was  made  Governor  of  Florida,  or  (as  his 


'StAii' 


THE  FACE   AT  THE   WINDOW. 


147 


)nly  here  on 
[riests,  these 

of  us  both. 
[  like  the 
the  blood  of 

veins." 
hoed  Grind- 
,  an  English- 

'eturned  his 
for  a  light 
undred  yewrs 
isa,  was  wed- 
Worse  and 
idded  with  a 
ide,  Seminole 
and  a  strange 
)  hear  it?" 
thy,  heartily : 
},  for  the  tell- 
Uk,  I  take  it, 
srstands  Eng- 

ationed  Alex- 
[  him.  "But 
,  even  if  they 
e  year  of  our 
of  the  isle  of 
ida,  or  (as  his 


commission  stated  it),  *■  of  all  the  lands  lying  from 
the  River  of  Palms  to  the  Cape  of  Florida.'  He 
sailed  for  his  new  domain,  that  year,  with  four 
hundred  foot  soldiers  and  twenty  horse,  in  five 
stout  ships. 

"  This  de  Narvaez  had  previously  made  some 
name  for  himself  by  having  engaged  the  famous 
Cortez,  at  the  order  of  the  Governor  of  Cuba. 
But  the  destroyer  of  Mexico  overthrew  him,  and 
took  him  prisoner.  Whereupon,  the  hot-headed 
and  arrogant  fellow  cried  out  to  Cortez :  *  Esteem 
it  good  fortune  that  you  have  taken  t/ie  captive ! ' 
To  which,  the  victor  replied :  '  Nay,  then,  it  is 
the  least  of  the  things  I  have  done  in  Mexico ! ' 

"  Well,  it  was  in  the  month  of  April  that  de 
Narvaez  landed  in  Florida,  somewhere  about 
Apalachee  bay.  He  marched  with  his  men  into 
the  country,  seizing  on  the  natives,  as  they  went, 
and  forcing  them  to  act  as  guides.  They  had 
their  heads  full  of  dreams  of  splendid  cities,  and 
of  towns  full  of  gems,  or  of  gold  and  silver  treas- 
ure. They  were  terribly  disappoi  i  •  ted  when  they 
reached  the  first  village  (of  Apalachbc)  to  find  it 
a  miserable  little  settlement  of  some  for.'y  In- 
dian wigwams.  The  natives,  by  degrees,  got  to 
understand  that  this  insolent  Spaniard  and  his 
people  were  merely  treasure-hunting  upon  their 
grounds,  for  gold  and  emeralds ;  so  they  guyed 
them  about  from  one  village  to  another,  always 


* 


148 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


{)roiDising  that  rich  « finds '  awaited  them  at  their 
next  remove. 

"De  Narvaez  and  his  men  were  thus  led  a 
pretty  dance  over  some  eight  hundred  miles  of 
country,  losing  soldiers  and  provisions  at  every 
turn.  Coming  out,  at  last,  upon  the  coast,  th«;y 
found  themselves  in  such  wretched  plight,  that 
they  set  about  making  some  cockle  shells  of 
boats,  in  which  none  but  the  most  desperate  of 
creatures  would  venture  to  embark.  In  these, 
they  coasted  toward  New  Spain.  But,  alasl 
when  they  neared  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi, 
they  were  cast  away  in  a  storm,  and  all  perished 
save  fifteen,  only  four  of  whom  lived  to  reach 
Mexico,  and  that,  after  eight  years  of  wandering 
and  hardships,  almost  past  believing. 

"  The  wife  of  de  Narvaez  hearing,  the  next 
year,  in  Cuba,  the  unhappy  end  of  her  husband's 
trpedition,  fitted  out  a  small  ompany  of  some 
score  and  a  half  of  men,  and  sent  them  forth  in 
a  brigantine  to  search  for  the  Governor  and  his 
soldiers.  With  this  company,  went  Juan  Ortiz, 
my  ancMtor,  a  native  of  Seville,  and  a  gentleman 
highly  connected  with  the  Castilian  nobility. 

"  Reaching,  in  due  time,  the  coast  of  Florida, 
the  newcomers,  in  their  inexperience,  eagerly 
sought  to  communicate  with  the  natives.  The 
natives,  on  their  part,  seemed  just  as  eager  to 
give  them  a  chance.    For,  as  the  Spaniards  drew 


;hem  at  their 

a  thus  led  a 
Ired  miles  of 
ons  at  every 
le  coast,  they 
1  plight,  that 
kle  sliells  of 
;  desperate  of 
>k.  In  these, 
But,  alas! 
le  Mississippi, 
i  all  perished 
ved  to  reach 
of  >vandering 

*ing,  the  next 
her  husband's 
pany  of  some 
them  forth  in 
emor  and  his 
it  Juan  Ortiz, 
d  a  gentleman 
I  nobility, 
ist  of  Florida, 
ienoe,  eagerly 
natives.  The 
t  as  eager  to 
paniardsdrew 


THE  FACE  AT  THE   WINDOW. 


149 


near  to  the  shore,  in  their  boat,  three  or  four  In- 
dians ran  down  upon  the  beach,  and  betting  up  a 
stick  on  the  sands,  placed  in  a  cleft  at  its  top, 
what  looked  to  be  a  letter.  Then,  they  withdrew 
a  few  paces,  and  made  signs  for  the  Spanianb  to 
come  and  take  it. 

"  *  It  is  a  snare  to  capture  us  1 '  cried  the  cap- 
Uin  of  the  brigantine;  and  all  aboard  agreed 
with  him  in  his  suspicions,  save  Juan  Ortiz,  and 
his  body-servant,  Manuel  Gomez. 

'•♦It  is  a  letter  from  his  Excellency,  Governor 
de  Narvaez,'  urged  the  gentleman  from  Seville. 
♦  It  may  tell  us  all  we  want  to  know  about  him 
and  his  lost  company.  Gomez  and  I  will  go  and 
fetch  it.  Come,  Manuel,  let  us  wade  at  once  to 
the  shore  1'  And,  in  spite  of  the  loud  protests 
of  the  ship's  company,  Ortiz  and  his  servant 
pushed  through  the  dear,  green  shallows  to  the 
spot  on  the  sand,  where  the  supposed  letter  waa 
fluttering  in  the  wind. 

" No  sooner  had  'hey  touched  the  beach,  than 
the  Indians  swarmed  out,  like  magic,  from  every 
side,  till  a  multitude  surrounded  the  two  Span- 
iards, and  laid  hold  of  them.  Gomez  foolishly 
showed  fight,  and  was  insttintly  killed  by  a  tom- 
ahawk in  the  hands  of  a  chief.  The  rest  of  the 
natives  carried  oflf  Ortiz  to  the  nearest  Indian 
village— his  friends  in  the  brigantine  being  so 
frightened  by  what  they  saw  upon  the  shore,  that 


ii- 


150 


LOT   LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


they  put  out  to  sea  again,  making  no  effort  to 

rescue  him. 

"  In  the  Indian  village,  Ortiz  noticed  that  the 
houses  were  all  made  of  wood,  and  thatched  with 
palm  leaves.  The  two  largest  were  the  house 
of  the  chief  (or  caziqiie)  of  the  tribe,  which  stood 
on  a  terrace,  and  resembled  a  fort ;  and  a  temple 
for  sacrifices  over  the  door  of  which  was  set  up  a 
curious  object.  This  was  the  figure  of  a  great 
bird,  carved  with  some  skill  out  of  wood,  and 
fiaving  gilded  eyes!  Ortiz  wondered  a  good 
deal,  as  he  looked  at  it,  who  could  have  been  the 
painter  that  understood  the  art  of  gilding  in  that 
wild  and  savage  quarter. 

«  But  he  was  not  left  long  to  ponder  the  mys- 
tery. The  Indians  hurried  him  before  their 
chief,  whose  name  was  Ucita ;  and  who  at  once 
condemned  Juan  to  die  by  fire.  This  was  to  be 
done  as  follows : 

"  Four  savages  set  as  many  high  stakes  in  the 
ground,  to  which  they  bound  the  captive.  They 
fastened  his  arms  and  legs,  extended,  as  if  on  a 
St.  Andrew's  cross ;  and,  down  below  him,  they 
lighted  a  fire,  so  as  to  make  his  death  a  slow  and 
dreadful  torture. 

"The  flames  began  to  rage  and  roar,  (fed  by 
many  cruel,  eager  hands),  and  poor  Ortiz  feeling 
their  scorching  breath  upon  his  feet,  believed 
himself  already  doomed.    As  he  was  a  good 


[lo  e£Fort  to 

3ed  that  the 
atched  with 
)  the  house 
which  stood 
md  a  temple 
was  set  up  a 
3  of  a  great 
E  wood,  and 
red  a  good 
Eive  been  the 
tiding  in  that 

der  the  mys- 
before  their 
who  at  once 
his  was  to  be 

stakes  in  the 
ptive.  They 
ed,  as  if  on  a 
ow  him,  they 
bh  a  slow  and 

roar,  (fed  by 

Ortiz  feeling 

feet,  believed 

was  a  good 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW. 


161 


Papist,  he  prayed  fervently  to  God  and  the 
Madonna  for  aid.  When  lol  a  very  strange 
circumstance  happened.' 

"  Out  from  the  house  of  the  chief,  near  by, 
there  ran  to  Ucita,  a  young  and  graceful  Indian 
girl.    It  was  his  only  daughter,  Wacissa.    We 
had  a  picture  of  her— an  heirloom— at  our  old 
English  homestead  across  the  seas.    Juan  Ortiz 
painted  her,  years  later,  just  as  she  appeared, 
that  day.    Her  skin  was  more  of  a  golden  tint 
than  brown,  with  a  rich  carmine  on  cheek  and 
lips.    Her  face  was  passing  lovely,  and  she  wore 
a  robe  of  pure,  white  cotton  that  fell  in  straight 
folds  to  her  feet.    On  her  long,  black,  silky  hair 
was  a  wreath  of  fresh,  green  palm-leaves ;  and 
about  her  rounded  throat,  a  necklace  of  sparkling 
beads,  while  her  beautiful  arms  were  ringed  with 
great    bands  of  polished  silver.    Ortiz  always 
declared  when  he  painted  thtj  picture  (for  he  was 
very  skilful  in  colors)  that,  in  his  awful  extremity 
that  day,  Wacissa  looked  to  him  like  a  young 
goddess  out  of  a  Greek  poem. 

**He  could  not  understand  her  language,  but 
he  guessed  well  her  meaning  when,  standing 
before  Ucita,  she  bowed  to  him  profoundly,  and 
spread  wide  her  lovely,  pleading  arms.  Long 
afterward,  he  knew  that  she  said  to  him  in  her 
rich,  musical  voice :  '  My  kind  father,  why  kill 
1  These  mc  actual  facu,  attetted  by  a  credible  authority. 


'■■1 


152 


LOT  LKSLIK's   folks. 


thig  poor  stranger?  He  is  but  one,  and  alone- 
how,  then,  can  he  do  you  or  our  people  any 
harm?  It  is  better  that  you  should  keep  him  a 
prisoner.  Alive,  and  grateful,  he  may,  some  day, 
prove  himself  of  great  service  to  you.  Spare 
him,  then,  if  only  for  my  sa.  \  great  and  good 

Ucital' 

"  Th.5  caeigue  sat  silent  for  a  while,  watching 
the  furious  flames  leap  higher  and  higher,  lick- 
ing, as  with  tongues  of  fire,  the  soles  of  the 
victim's  feet.  His  wrists  and  ankles  had  begun 
to  bleed  from  the  deep  gashes  made  by  his  cruel 
bonds.    His  face  was  livid  with  agony. 

<'<  Release  the  captive  1'  cried  Ucita,  at  last, 
rising,    and    going   away    to   his   house.    The 
Indians  instantly  cut  down  the  Spaniard,  and 
laid  him  fainting  at  Wacissa's  feet.    When  they 
had  brought  her  water  and  oil,  she  gently  washed 
and  dressed  the  captive's  wounds;  and,  when  he 
revived,  ordered  food  and  drink  to  be  given  to 
him.    He   smUed    up  into  her  beautiful  face, 
which  seemed  to  him,  then,  the  face  of  a  mm- 
istering  angel ;  and  made  a  feeble  effort  to  kiss 
her  tender  hands.    She  blushed,  but  did  not 
show  any  signs  of  displeasure. 

"  In  a  few  days,  Ortiz  was  well  enough  to  be 
allotted  his  special  work  in  tha  tribe.  Strange 
and  dreadful  work  it  was,  and  very  revolting  to 
a  high-born  Spaniard  of  delicate  taates.    Death 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW. 


153 


.nd  alone — 
people  any 
keep  him  a 
,  some  day, 
you.  Spare 
t  and  good 

e,  watching 
higher,  lick- 
ioles  of  the 
s  had  begun 
by  his  cruel 

sita,  at  last, 
house.  The 
i)aniard,  and 

When  they 
Bntly  washed 
tnd,  when  he 

be  given  to 
antiful  face, 
30  of  a  min- 
effort  to  kiss 
but  did  not 

inough  to  be 
be.  Strange 
revolting  to 
stes.    Death 


would  almost  have  been  easier.  He  was  sta- 
tioned as  sentinel  at  the  door  of  the  village- 
temple,  and  set  to  guard  it  against  all  intruders, 
especially  wild  beasts.  Being  a  place  of  sacrifice, 
it  was  the  nightly  resort  of  wolves,  seeking  for 
carrion.  The  rude  altar  in  the  centre  of  the 
gr«>iat  gloomy  hall  was  dyed  red  with  human 
blood;  the  floor  was  thickly  strewn  with  a 
ghastly  array  of  skulls  and  bloody  bones,  in 
various  loathsome  stages  of  decay. 

"The  sight  of  these,  and  their  awful  stench 
filled  poor  Ortiz  with  a  shuddering  sickness.  He 
could  not  help  fancying  that  the  remains  of  the 
unfortunate  de  Narvaez  and  his  men  might  be 
among  the  horrors  that  reeked  under  the  gilded 
eyes  of  the  great  carved  bird.  The  place  seemed 
peopled,  nightly,  with  the  ghosts  of  the  missing 
Spaniards;  and  a  fearful  midnight  adventure, 
which  happened,  at  this  time,  almost  upset  his 
reason." 

Here,  the  Englishman  stopped  to  relight  his 
pipe,  which  had  gone  out ;  and  the  storehouse 
oat.  Brother  Fine-Ear  by  name,  came,  and  rubbed 
his  sides  agaihst  Timothy's  foot. 

It  was  an  enormous  creature,  smooth,  round, 
and  glossy  as  a  black,  satin  cushion. 

From  the  top  of  his  broad  head  to  the  tip  of 
his  sinuous  tail,  not  a  spot  of  color  was  to  be  seen 
about  him,  except  his  great  green  eyes,  which 


I 


«P 


jL^ 


*  — 


IMP 


rtapBQ^MSBSB 


r\ 


154 


LOT  LESLIK'a   FOLKS. 


now  fixed  theiuselves  steadily  on  Grindstonp':; 

face. 

He  patted  his  knee  encouragingly,  and  Brother 
Fine-E^r  sprang  up  upon  it,  and  curled  himuelf 
down  under  the  stroke  of  the  friendly  hand, 
purring  loudly,  as  he  tucketl  in  his  velvet  paws, 
and  settled  to  a  blinking  nap. 

"Late,  one  night,"  said  Alexander,  going  on 
with  hiM  story  :  "  Juan  Ortiz  awoke  to  find  the 
temple  a  den  of  howling  wolves.  At  sunset,  that 
day,  the  dead  body  of  a  young  Indian  had  been 
brought  in,  and  laid  upon  the  altar  of  sacrifice. 
It  was  the  son  of  a  great  chief,  and  many  charges 
had  been  given  the  sentinel  to  'yuard  it  well. 
But  the  wolves  had  scented  out  thoir  prey. 

"  Waking  in  a  sore  fright,  J'lan  seized  a  heavy 
cudgel,  (^which  1  ■  always  kept  by  him  when  he 
slept),  and  laid  about  him  in  the  dense  darkness 
of  the  temple,  driving  out  the  filthy  beasts.  He 
unt'W  not  that  the  foremost,  as  it  ran,  dragged 
with  it  the  corpse  of  the  young  Indian;  but, 
hav'ng  pui-sued  the  pack  for  some  distance,  he 
chanced  to  smite  one  of  the  wolves,  at  random, 
a  mortal  blow.  It  was  not  until  his  return  to 
the  temple,  at  daybreak,  thttt  he  discovered,  to 
his  deep  distress,  the  loss  of  the  young  Indian's 

body. 

"  The  aflfair  made  a  great  stir  in  the  village ; 
and  Ucita,  full  of    rage,  resolvec  to  put  the 


THE   PACE  AT  THE   WINDOW. 


156 


Irrimlstoiicii 

nd  Brother 
rled  binmelf 
indly  hand, 
t^elvet  paws, 

sr,  going  on 

)  to  find  the 

;  sunset,  that 

an  had  been 

'  of  sacrifice. 

lany  charges 

lurd  it  well. 

p  prey. 

lized  a  heavy 

lim  when  he 

nse  darkness 

beasts.    He 

ran,  dragged 

[ndian;  but, 

distance,  he 

I,  at  random, 

lis  return  to 

isoovered,  to 

ung  Indian's 

the  village; 
to  put  the 


unlucky  Spaniard  to  death.  First,  however,  he 
sent  out  several  Indians  to  recover,  if  possible, 
the  lost  sacrifice  from  the  wolves.  He  had  not 
credited  the  sentinel's  version  of  his  midnight 
encounter ;  but,  astonishing  to  relate,  the  young 
man's  corpse  was  found  by  the  scouts,  and  near 
it,  the  body  of  the  huge  wolf  that  Ortiz  had  un- 
consciously slain  in  the  darkness. 

"  This  saved  the  life  of  the  Spaniard :  and  for 
several  more  years,  he  watched  at  the  door  of  the 
temple  of  sacrifice,  keeping  guard  over  the  unholy 
dead,  under  the  outspread  wings  of  the  great, 
golden-eyed  bird.  At  last,  Ucita  decided  to  sac- 
rifice the  sentinel,  in  order  to  win  the  favor  of 
his  gods  upon  a  war  he  had  begun  to  wage  with 
a  neighboring  cazique,  Mocoso. 

"  But,  again,  Wacissa  came  to  the  Spaniard's 
rescue.  At  dead  of  night,  she  led  him  secretly 
out  of  her  father's  village,  and  brought  him  safely 
to  the  camp  of  Mocoso.  That  chief  seems  to 
have  been  a  broad-minded  man,  according  to  his 
natural  lights,  and  of  great  kindness  of  heart. 
He  welcoraed  the  daughter  of  his  rival;  and 
Ortiz,  finding  to  his  surprise  and  delight,  that  a 
priest,  Dom  Angelo,  the  former  chaplain  of  the 
de  Narvaez  fleet,  was  also  a  captive  of  Mocoso's, 
engaged  him  at  once  to  marry  him  to  Wacissa." 

A  little  interruption  here  took  place  in  the 
trader's  story — Brother  Regis  calling  on  Timothy 


t     ■ 

1,' 


156 


LOT  LKSLIE's  folks. 


to  light  the  lamps  around  the  walla  of  the  store- 
house, where  the  twilight  shadows  had  already 
begun  to  darken. 

When  he  had  resumed  his  seat  besidd  the  Eng- 
lishman, with  Brother  Fire-Ear  again  on  his 
knee,  Alexander  continued : 

"  For  many  years,  Juan  Ortiz  and  his  Indian 
wife  led  a  peaceful,  happy  life  in  their  southern 
home.  Mocoso  grew  so  fond  of  the  Spaniard, 
who  was  a  good  and  wise  man,  that  he  chose 
him  for  his  favorite  counsellor,  and  treated  him 
and  Wacissa,  as  well  as  the  priest,  more  like 
honored  guests  than  prisoners  and  slaves. 

"  Ortiz,  as  our  family  legends  teU  us, '  spent 
his  time  wandering  with  his  gentle,  beautiful 
wife  over  the  delightful  savannahs  of  Florida, 
through  the  mazes  of  the  palmetto,  or  beneath  the 
refreshing  shades  of  the  fragrant  magnoUa— pur- 
suing the  deer  in  the  grey  of  the  early  mornmg, 
and  the  scaly  fry  in  the  sUver  lakes,  at  the  cool 
of  the  evening.'  Theirs,  was  the  ideal  life  of 
Adam  and  Eve  in  an  earthly  Paradise." 

"  Among  their  many  children  (who,  with  their 
sweet  mother,  were  aU  made  Christians  by  the 
good  Dom  Angelo),  one  daughter,  YsabeUa,  was 
destined  for  a  different  fate  to  that  of  her  brothers 
and  sisters.  A  young  English  sailor  was  ship- 
wrecked on  the  Florida  coast,  and,  after  clinging 
to  a  broken  mast  for  a  night  and  a  day,  was 


THE   FACK  AT  THE   WINDOW. 


157 


>f  the  store- 
lad  already 

{idd  the  Eng- 
in  on  his 

I  his  Indian 
eir  southern 
le  Spaniard, 
at  he  chose 
treated  him 

1^  more  like 
aves. 

II  us,  'spent 
le,  beautiful 
}  of  Florida, 
r  beneath  the 
ignolia — pur- 
ely morning, 
B,  at  the  cool 
ideal  life  of 
se." 

[O,  with  their 
Btians  by  the 
fsabella,  was 
her  brothers 


or  was 
iter  clinging 
1  a  day,  was 


rescued  by  Ysabella  in  her  little  canoe.  The  life 
that  she  saved  was  devoted,  fro'n  that  hour,  to  its 
beautiful  deliverer.  Henry  Alexander,  (for  the 
young  man  was  my  great-grandfather),  wooed  and 
won  this  gentle  daughter  of  Juan  and  Wacissa 
Ortiz ;  and,  later  on,  carried  her  back  to  England, 
where  he  fell  heir  to  a  considerable  estate. 

"One  of  his  grandsons  eventually  emigrated 
to  Canada,  and  from  that  branch  of  our  family, 
came  the  Belleperohes  whose  descendants  are 
now  settled  here,  on  the  bank  of  the  Detroit.  It 
was  the  son  of  my  cousin  Belleperche,  who  gave 
us  this  morning,  in  this  very  storehouse,  the 
pleasing  rhyme  on  the  origin  of  the  races.  He  is 
a  clever  youth,  and  a  fine  deolaimer.  I  have  been 
staying  with  his  father  for  some  days,  but  to- 
night, I  start  once  more  upon  the  road.  What  I 
said  to  you.  Grindstone,  at  our  first  talk,  I  re- 
peat to  you,  this  evening :  Will  you  come  with 
me  to  Lake  George  ?  Will  you  try  your  luck  on 
a  trading-trip  to  Fort  William  Henry  ?  " 

At  this  juncture,  the  great  cat  on  Timothy's 
knee  began  to  spit,  and  rose  up,  ruffling  its  inky 
for,  and  arching  its  glossy  back. 

Its  big  green  eyes  ghured  at  one  of  the  store 
windows,  blazing,  like  a  pair  of  fiery  emeralds. 

Timothy  followed  its  gaze :  and  what  he  saw 
there  made  his  heart  stand  still,  and  the  blood 
freeze  in  his  veins. 


w 


,  p 


■f 

I 

I 

158 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


A  huge  Indian  stood  outside  the  window,  peer* 
ing  into  the  store.  He  held  his  blanket  arched 
over  his  head,  so  that  he  might  the  better  see 
into  the  lighted  room;  but  Timothy  distinctly 
saw  his  face.    A  near-by  lamp  shone  Ml  upon  it. 

He  recognized  the  man  as  a  Gaughnewaga 
chief,  one  of  the  craftiest  and  most  cruel  of  his 
old  masters. 

They  had,  then,  tracked  him  to  his  present 
refuge ! 

The  cold  sweat  started  out  over  him,  at  the 
thought  of  being  retaken,  and  dragged  back  into 
captivity. 

He  lifted  the  great  cat,  and  held  it  before  his 
face,  to  hide  it,  if  possible,  from  the  Indian ;  but 
he  could  not  hide  it  from  Alexander,  who  was 
seated  with  his  back  to  the  fatal  window. 

"What  ails  you,  man?"  growled  the  English- 
man, alarmed  at  his  companion's  deadly  white- 
ness.   "  Have  you  seen  a  ghost  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  an  enemy ! "  muttered  Timothy, 
shrinking  into  the  shadow  of  some  boxes,  and 
setting  Fine-Ear  on  his  feet.  "Say  no  more," 
he  added,  gripping  Alexander's  hand  as  in  a 
vise :  "  I  am  your  man.  I'll  go  with  you  to- 
night ;  but  you  must  help  me  disguise  myself  for 
the  journey.  There  are  cruel  spies  upon  my 
track." 

"  Leave  all  that  to  me,"  returned  Alexander, 


'^i 


'■>' 


window,  peei** 
lanket  arched 
he  better  see 
thy  distinctly 
le  xull  upon  it. 
Gaughnewaga 
>8t  cruel  of  his 

to  his  present 

er  hiio,  at  the 
gged  back  into 

Id  it  before  his 

le  Indian ;  but 

mder,  who  was 

yindow. 

ed  the  English- 

9  deadly  white- 

tered  Timothy, 
>mc  boxes,  and 
Say  no  more," 
hand  as  in  a 
o  with  you  to- 
piise  myself  for 
spies  upon  my 

aed  Alexander, 


THE   FACE  AT  THE   WINDOW. 


159 


encouragingly ;  then,  as  a  middle-aged  Canadian 
entered  the  store,  followed  by  a  party  of  Indians : 
"Here  is  my  cousin,  Belleperche,  with  some  of 
his  friendly  Hurons.  They'll  see  you  safe  to  the 
Mission  house.  Make  ready,  there,  for  the  road ; 
and  I'll  call  for  you  in  an  hour  or  two." 

Timothy  went  back,  through  the  moonlight,  to 
Fathe^  Armand  in  such  a  state  of  anxious  per- 
plexity, that  he  scarcely  noticed  his  kindly  body- 
guard, or  thought  of  looking  about  for  the  big 
Gaughnewaga.  He  would  have  been  easier  in 
his  mind  if  he  had  known  that  the  huge  fellow 
lay,  that  moment,  on  the  ground,  under  the  store- 
house window,  with  Red  Snake's  knife  glittering 
in  his  lifeless  breast. 

Having  pledged  his  word  to  the  Englishman, 
Timothy  was  now  sorely  distressed  at  the  pros- 
pect of  parting  from  little  Willy.  The  presence 
of  the  Gaughnewaga  was  a  menace  to  the  boy,  as 
well  as  to  himself.  Why  couldn't  he  take  Willy 
with  him  to  Lake  George  ? 

But  the  Father  Superior  soon  dashed  that 
feeble  hope.  Willy,  (he  said),  was  not  so  well  as 
he  had  been,  that  morning.  H6  had  grown 
feverish  during  the  afternoon.  The  ohild  was 
far  "too  weak  for  a  long,  rough  joumfey;  Father 
Armand  ha/*  already  sent  him  t6  bed. 

Was  he  asleep?  The  priest  thought  not. 
Timothy,  then,  making  his  way  into  the  moon- 


160 


LOT        i.  lie's  folks. 


lighted  inflpmary,  had  a  long  talk  with  the  lad» 
sitting  on  the  side  of  his  little  cot. 

By  the  time  Alexander  arrived,  that  night,  at 
the  Mission  house,  Timothy  had  had  his  supper, 
and  had  arranged  tha*,  Willy  should  remain  with 
Father  Armand  during  his  friend's  absence.  It 
was  also  agreed,  that  the  boy  should  see  no 
strangers,  but  spend  his  time  constantly  under 
the  Superior's  eye,  studying,  and  improving  him- 
self. 

The  little  fellow,  seeing  that  Grindstone  seemed 
uneaay,  promised  him  in  a  whisper  that  he  would 
let  no  one  make  a  PapUt  of  him  while  he  waa 

gone. 

When  all  these  little  matters  were  finally  set- 
tled, Timothy  asked  for  Father  Peter.  He  wanted 
to  say  fareweU  to  him,  and  thank  him  for  his 
kind  attentions. 

H€  was  surprised  to  learn  from  the  Superior, 
that  his  brother-priest  had  not  returned— would 
not  return  that  night,  from  the  Wyandot  village. 
One  of  their  Montreal  factors,  Louis  St.  Ange, 
with  his  wife  and  her  maid,  had  been  lost  during 
the  day  in  the  forest  by  the  river,  (said  Father 
Armaad).  The  ladies  bad  made  their  way  with 
much  diiftculty  to  the  blockhouse ;  but  Catharine 
Tarbuki  had  brought  word,  at  sunset,  that  Father 
Peter  and  a  party  of  Indians  were  still  scouring 
the  vroodi  for  the  lost  merchant. 


?t*i 


with  the  lad, 

that  night,  at 
ad  his  supper, 
1  remain  with 
B  absence.  It 
hould  see  no 
stantly  under 
aproving  him- 

idstone  seemed 

that  he  would 

while  he  was 

ere  finally  set- 
er.  He  wanted 
ik  him  for  his 

n  the  Superior, 
turned — would 
yandot  village. 
Louis  8t.  Ange, 
leen  lost  during 
er,  (said  Father 
their  way  with 
;  but  Catharine 
^t,  that  Father 
re  still  sconring 


TTTE  FACT.   AT  THE   WINDOW. 


161 


When  questioned  further,  Catharine  had  said 
that  the  St.  Anges  had  been  traveling  among 
the  tribes,  for  months,  searching  for  a  stolen  child. 
Father  Peter  hoped  to  bring  them  to  the  Assump- 
tion Mission,  the  following  day. 

"  You  won't  forget  your  promise,  sir— to  keep 
AVilly  away  from  the  eyes  of  all  strangers  ?  "  said 
Timothy,  aa  he  grasped  tightly  the  Superior's 

hand. 

And,  while  the  good  priest  renewed  his  assur- 
ances that  he  would  guard  faithf  uUy  his  precious 
trust,  Alexander  opened  his  pack,  and  took  from 
it  a  wig  and  beard  of  long  white  hair  and  a  bun- 
dle of  picturesque  clothing. 

The  first,  Timothy  fitted  over  his  ugly  scalp- 
lock  ;  the  second,  he  fastened  securely  around  his 
jaws ;  and  when  he  had  changed  his  Indian  dress 
for  one  of  the  Englishman's  Canadian  disguises, 
he  stood  forth  ready  for  his  journey,  the  imper- 
sonation  of  a  hardy,  respectable  old  French 

trader. 

"  If  the  redskins  scalp  me  now,"  said  he,  with 
a  grim  smile,  as  he  parted  from  Father  Armand, 
"  they'll  not  have  much  trouble  ripping  off  my 

hairl" 

"And  no  danger  of  a  sore  head  after  the  oper- 
ation, either  1 "  added  Alexander,  with  a  hwgh. 

Could  he  have  foreseen  the  future,— could  he 
have  torn  away  the  veil  from  the  dark  and 


162  LOT   LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 

bloody  doom  then  shambling  hideously  toward 
him,— that  laugh  would  have  changed  into  a 
shriek  of  horror,  strong  enough  to  have  shaken 
the  very  stars  of  heaven. 


isly  toward 
Lged  into  a 
have  shaken 


CHAPTER  7111. 

A  FATAL  GAME  OF  BALL. 

The  English  trader's  first  plan  had  been  to 
travel  down  to  Pennsylvania,  .^A  visit  Fort 
Gripsholm  on  the  SchuylkiU  River,  near  the  site 
of  what  is  now  known  as  Gray's  Ferry. 

It  was  a  Swedish  station— then,  surrounded  by 
a  great  forest ;  and  near  by,  was  the  Strong-house 
built  by  the  Swedes  for  a  trafficking  place  with 
the  Delawares,  and  other  Indian  tribes,  who 
thither  brougU  their  furs  for  exchange. 

But  the  news  of  the  British  victory  at  Lake 
George  had  changed  Alexander's  plans.  He, 
consequently,  m^de  his  way  with  his  companion 
through  the  Great  Lakes,  and  across  the  northern 
part  of  New  York. 

Here,  he  struck  the  waters  which  mingle  with 
those  of  Lake  Charaplain,  and  which  were  first 
christened  by  the  sainted  martyr.  Father  Isaac 
Jogues-the  Ijike  of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  be- 
cause he  came  upon  them  on  the  eve  of  Oorp«« 
Christi.  The  name  of  the  English  king  after- 
wards  blotted  out  the  lake's  early  and  sacred 
title;  and  when  Timothy  Grindstone  first  looked 

163 


164 


LOT  LESIiIE'S   folks. 


upon  it,  trailing  its  thirty  miles  of  clear,  tranquil 
water  between  loig  ranges  of  lofty  mountains, 
it  was  known  only  as  Lake  George. 

At  its  southern  point,  stood  Fort  William 
Henry.  On  their  way  thither,  Alexander  and 
Timothy  stopped  at  one  of  its  outposts,  where 
General  Johnson  had  encamped  some  of  his  men. 
These  were  so  elated  by  the  victory  of  the  pre- 
vious June,  that  they  had  grown  careless  and 
self-confident,  somewhat  relaxing  their  vigilance 
against  the  neighboring  French  and  Indiana 

Alexander  was  surprised  to  learn  from  the 
commanding  officer,  Captain  Gorell,  that,  the  day 
following  the  trader's  arrival  at  the  post,  the  In- 
dians were  to  entertain  the  garrison  with  a  gam.- 
of  Baggatiway. 

"What  is  'Baggatiway'?''  asked  Timothy  of 
his  friend,  the  next  day,  when  they  were  alone  in 
an  upper  room  of  the  fort. 

"  Have  you  never  seen  it  played  ?"  said  Alex- 
ander. "  It's  an  Indian  game  of  ball,  and  a  very 
exciting  one,  I  can  assure  you.  Aren't  you  com- 
ing down  to  watch  it  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  replied  Timothy,  as  he  arranged  upon 
a  small  table  some  sheets  of  paper,  an  ink-horn, 
and  a  quill  pen  one  of  the  officers  had  given  him. 
"  I'm  going  to  write  a  letter  to  Willy.  A  canoe 
will  leave  here  at  noon  ;  and  I' ..  glad  of  a  chance 
to  send  a  few  lines.    The  lad's  a  poor  scholar,  to 


ear,  tranquil 
r  mountains, 

ort  William 
exander  and 
posts,  where 
s  of  his  men. 
•y  of  the  pre- 
careless  and 
leir  vigilance 
Indiana 
m  from  the 
that,  the  day 
post,  the  In- 
with  a  gamo 

i  Timothy  of 
were  alone  in 

?  "  said  Alex- 
11,  and  a  very 
en't  you  com- 

irranged  upon 
',  an  ink-horn, 
ad  given  him. 
Uy.  A  canoe 
ad  of  a  chance 
x>r  scholar,  to 


A  FATAL  GAME  OF  BALL. 


166 


be  sura:  '  ut  Father  Armand  will  kindly  read 
him  the  letter  from  his  absent  Tim." 

«  That  old  priest  seems  to  be  a  goodish  sort  ol 
a  man,"  said  the  Englishman,  thoughtfully,  "  I 
think   you   said   he   gave  you  a  8af<H5ondttct 

letter  ?  " 
"Yes,  I  have  it  snugly  here,"  and  Grindstone 

tapped  his  breast-pocket.  ^    .,   ., 

"Hold  fast  to  it,"  said  Alexander,  decidedly. 
"  It  may  prove  of  great  service,  if  we  get  into  a 
tight  place  at  any  time,  with  these  French  or  red- 
skins.   Now,  I'll  run  down  to  the  mess-room, 
he  added,  "  and  find  out  when  Baggatvuwy  is  go- 

ine  to  begin."  . 

Timothy  had  only  written  a  page  or  two-for 
he  was  but  a  clumsy  penman,  writing  with  great 
labor,  squaring  his  elbow  a«  he  did  so,  his  face 
close  to  the  paper,  and  constantly  putUng  out  his 
tongue-when  the  Englishman  returned. 

He  was  looking  very  red  in  the  face,  and  kept 
mopping  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with  a  big 
yellow  handkerchief . 

A  large,  florid  man,  was  Henry  Alexander, 
who  always  felt  the  heat  very  nmch. 

«  A  deuced  hot  morning.  Grindstone  1    he  cned. 
«  By  Jove !  I'm  going  to  tek«  a  dip  in  the  ^e 
Game  won't  begin  for  a  while  yet     I'll  have 
time  enough  for  my  bath  before  the  posts  are 
set." 


166 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


.  "Suoceas  to  you!"  said  Timothy,  good-na- 
turedly, as  he  rubbed  his  quill  across  his  sleeve 
b  •  w&Y  of  a  pen- wiper. 

« Bept  leave  these  here  with  you,"  pursued 
.  '«ixander,  taking  out  his  purse,  and  drawing 
r  '  ■M  his  fob  a  big,  old-fashioned  silver  watch. 

K  »id  both  on  the  table  beside  his  friend- 
then,  inc/ed  toward  the  door. 

Some  other  and  more  serious  thought  seemed 
suddenly  to  strike  him.  He  turned  with  a  grave 
look  on  his  broad,  rosy  face : 

"These  are  queer,  troublous  times,  Grind- 
stone," said  ho,  drawing  a  step  nearer  to  his 
friend.  "When  a  man  goes  out  of  his  door, 
he  knows  not  if  he  will  ever  come  back." 

He  passed  his  hand  perplexedly  across  his 
brow,  which  was  covered  with  beads  of  perspira- 
tion. 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  me,"  he 
added,  slowly;  "but,  remember  this:  If  any- 
thing sudden  happens  to  me,  comrade,  the  watch 
and  purse  are  yours." 

Walking,  with  a  curious  hesitancy,  to  the  door, 
he  wheeled  about  again  on  the  threshold  to  say : 
"  You'll  find  in  yonder  pack  the  sale-conduct 
letters  my  cousin  Belleperche  gave  me  at  parting. 
There's  a  bit  of  wampum,  there,  too — studded 
with  bear's  teeth.  I  got  it  from  the  chief  Pontiac. 
Both  might  be  useful  in  an  emergency." 


.  J- 


A  FATAL  GAME  OP   BALL. 


167 


ly,  good-na- 
»ss  his  sleeve 

m,"  pursued 
bnd  drawing 

er  watch. 

his  friend — 

ught  seemed 
with  a  grave 

imes,  Grind- 

learer  to  his 

of  his  door, 

ack." 

y  across  his 

s  of  perspira- 

over  me,"  he 
his:  If  any- 
de,  the  watch 

^,'to  the  door, 
«hold  to  say : 
)  safe-conduct 
ne  at  parting, 
too — studded 
chief  Fontiac. 
loy." 


And  he  was  gone. 

"  Heaven  save  us  I "  muttered  Timothy,  as  the 
door  dosed  after  him.  "The  heat's  been  too 
much  for  him.  He  needs  blood-letting  or  leeches. 
'Tain't  like  him  to  be  so  low  in  spirits." 

He  picked  up  his  quill,  and  returned  to  his 
hard  task  of  telling  Willy  on  paper  (it  would 
have  been  so  easy,  face  to  face !)  all  the  news  of 
his  journey  across  the  lakes,  and  the  success  of 
his  trading-trip  with  the  Englishman. 

But,  try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  fix  his 
thoughts  upon  his  letter.  His  friend's  unusual 
mood,  his  parting  words  of  counsel,  had  made 
him  so  uneasy,  that,  at  last,  he  pushed  aside  his 
pen  and  ink,  and  crossed  over  to  a  window  whi<v 
gave  upon  the  ground  in  front  of  the  fort.  Iv 
his  surprise,  he  saw  that  the  game  of  Baggatiway 
wts  just  about  to  begin. 

In  the  wide  field  below  him,  he  beheld  two 
posts  set  up  about  a  half-mile  apart. 

A  great  ball  had  been  thrown  into  the  central 
space  between  them;  and,  at  each  post,  were 
gathered  about  one  hundred  Indians,  all  armed 
with  bats,  or  curved  sticks,  with  a  sort  of  racket 
at  their  ends. 

The  game  consisted  in  so  hitting  the  ball  with 
the  bat,  as  to  drive  it  up  against  one  or  other  of 
the  opposing  posts. 
A  wild  sight,  it  was,  to  witness— some  two 


9m 


J^ 


.*  m 


tfiS 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


;!-! 


I  I 


ills 

ii 


liundred  great,  brown,  naked  creatures,  leaping 
and  racing  over  the  field,  their  long  black  hair 
flying  behind  them  in  the  wind. 

Now,  they  struggled  together  in  a  dense  mass 
on  the  ground,  like  players  in  a  modern  game 
of  football.  Again,  they  rushed  shouting  about, 
striking  madly  with  their  bats,  tripping  up  their 
opponents,  and  tossing  them  around,  like  so  many 
rag-dolls. 

And,  all  the  while,  the  gates  of  the  fort  stood 

wide  open. 

The  English  soldiers  lounged  outside  in  the 
sunshine,  or  perched  on  the  pickets  of  the  pali- 
sade, watching  the  game  with  merry  interest. 
Quite  oflf  their  guard,  they  laughed  and  chatted 
with  a  great  crowd  of  Canadians  who  had 
gathered  to  see  the  play. 

Some  of  the  British  officers— handsome,  dash- 
ing fellows  in  brilliant  uniforms  of  scarlet  velvet 
and  gold  lace— stood  at  the  gates,  exchanging 
bets  on  the  odds  of  the  game.' 

It  was  a  beautiful,  warm  day  in  the  Indian 
summer ;  and  Timothy  wondered,  as  he  gazed, 
that  the  groups  of  squaws  who  squatted  before 
the  palisades,  could  wear,  as  they  did,  their 
heavy  blankets  wrapped  closely  about  them. 

« Many  of  the  incidents  of  this  chapter  tctually  occurred  In  one 
of  Uie  colonies,  eight  years  later  than  the  date  of  oar  story. 


ures,  leaping 
g  black  hair 

a  dense  mass 
uodern  game 
muting  about, 
ping  up  their 
like  so  many 

;he  fort  stood 

utside  in  the 
»  of  the  pali- 
erry  interest. 
i  and  chatted 
uns   who  had 

ndsome,  dash- 
scarlet  velvet 
s,  exchanging 

in  the  Indian 
as  he  gazed, 
^uatted  before 
ley  did,  their 
out  them. 


illy  occurred  in  one 
at  oar  story. 


A   FATAL  GAME  OP  BALL. 


IM 


It  was  not  very  long  beforu  he  knew  the 
reason  why. 

He  looked  sharply  about  for  Alexander,  but 
could  see  nothing  of  him.  And,  after  a  while, 
tiring  of  the  uproar,  and  of  the  struggling,  brutal 
horse-play  of  those  hideous,  naked  savages  (whom 
he  detested),  he  went  back  to  his  table,  and  re- 
sumed his  \vriting. 

Not  more  than  fifteen  minutes  later,  a  loud 
Indian  war-cry  rose  suddenly  upon  the  air,  fol- 
lowed by  a  horrid  noise  and  confusion  in  the 
court  below. 

Timothy  sprang  to  the  window. 

His  blood  curdled  in  his  veins  as  he  looked. 

He  saw,  at  once,  the  dreadful  plot  that  lay 
beneath  the  (sometime)  merry  game  of  Baggat- 

iway. 

The  Indians  had  purposely  batted  the  ball  into 
the  grounds  of  the  fort;  and  then,  making  a 
feint  of  the  grand  rush  to  secure  it  again,  had 
swarmed  inside  the  gates ! 

As  they  ran,  shrieking  their  hideous  war-whoop, 
they  snatched  from  the  squaws  at  the  palisades, 
the  hatchets  they  had  been  hiding  under  their 
blankets  during  the  game,  and  cut  down  the 
English  soldiers,  right  and  left. 

Presently,  Timothy  saw  Alexander  in  a  deadly 
struggle,  at  the  gate,  with  a  powerful  savage, 
armed  to  the  teeth. 


mp 


f" 


m 


170 


LOT   LESLIK's   folks. 


He  turned  sick  with  horror,  as  he  saw  his 
friend,  (quickly  worsted  in  the  encounter),  drop 
gashed  and  bleeding  under  the  fiendish  strokes 
of  the  other's  tomahawk. 

When  he  heard  the  dreadful  scalp-yell,  he 
looked  wildly  about  the  room  for  some  weapon 

of  defence.  .    *  ^u 

In  a  corner,  a  fowling-piece  leaned  against  the 

wall.  ,     .^, 

He  seized  it,  and  found  it  loaded  with  swan- 
shot.  ,     ,      ^u    * 

Holding  it  fast,  he  listened  intently  for  the  tap 
of  the  drum,  calling  the  men  of  the  post  to  arms. 
Alas !  the  garrison,  surprised  and  overwhelmed, 
made  no  show  of  resistance.  He  saw  Captain 
Gorell  and  his  subordinate  officers  taken  prisoners, 
and  led  away  toward  the  woods.  It  was  easy  to 
guess  what  awaited  them  there ! 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments, the  slaughter  and  scalping  on  the  ground- 
floor  would  be  at  an  end,  and  the  blood-thirsty 
savages  would  then  swarm  over  the  rest  of  the 
building,  seeking  fresh  victims. 

Timothy  ran  to  a  back  window,  looking  out 
upon  the  house  of  a  Frenchman,  named  QuiUer- 
iez,  a  foolish  old  fellow,  who  was  gay  as  a  butter- 
fly, and  vain  as  a  peacock. 

'His  cabin,  like  the  fort,  had  two  stories ;  and, 
from  its  upper  window,  facing  the  one  at  which 


A    FATAL  (JAMK  OF  BALL. 


in 


he  saw  his 
mnter),  drop 
idish  strokes 

«alp-yell,  he 
iome  weapon 

d  against  the 

d  with  swan- 

,ly  for  the  tap 
post  to  arms. 
Dverwhelmetl, 
saw  Captain 
iken  prisoners, 
[t  was  easy  to 

In  a  few  mo- 
)n  the  ground- 
3  blood-thirsty 
;he  rest  of  the 

V,  looking  out 
named  Quiller- 
;ay  as  a  butter- 

o  stories ;  and, 
e  one  at  whioh 


Timothy  now  stood,  a  stout  rope  for  drying 
clothes  had  been  stretched  across,  and  secured  to 
the  opposite  wall  of  the  fort. 

This  had  been  done  in  the  recent  days  of  the 
French  occupation;  and  the  victors  had  been 
careless.  Only  that  morning,  one  of  the  British 
officers  had  drawn  the  commandant's  attention  to 
the  neglect;  but  the  man  who  had  been  ordered 
to  remove  the  rope,  had  been  too  busy  with  Bag- 
gatiway  to  execute  his  superior's  order. 

He  had  paid  for  his  disobedience  with  his  life. 
And  old  Quilleriez's  clothes'  line  remained  undis- 
turbed. 

Grindstone  hurried  to  poor  Alexander's  pack, 
and  tpok  out  of  it,  almost  with  tears,  the  safe- 
conduct  letters,  and  Pontiac's  strip  of  wampum. 

Hiding  these  in  his  breast,  with  his  dead 
friend's  watch  and  purse,  he  snatched  up  another 
long,  sharp  knife  from  the  pack,  and  thrust  it 
into  his  belt  with  his  own  knife  and  pistols. 

Then,  he  leaped  to  the  window-sill,  caught  at 
the  taut  rope,  like  a  sailor  or  a  monkey,  and 
swung  himself  across  the  narrow  space  to  the 
open  window  bn  the  other  side. 

As  he  went,  he  could  see  old  Quilleriez,  stand- 
ing at  a  lower  window,  in  his  fanciful,  many- 
colored  dress  and  gaudy  moccasins,  watching  the 
dreadful  scenes  in  the  court  beyond. 
All  was  quiet  and  sunny  in  this  back  region 


wk 


ti 


["iSa&iJ 


i»i.A^jiiMSiSJiu^i.M.jiiMigia- 


Vi 


172 


LOT    LESLIE'S    FOLKS. 


over  which  Timothy  travelled  on  his  tight-rope, 

unseen. 

He  blessed  the  warmth  of  the  dav  that  had 
led  to  the  opening  of  that  garret  window,  as  he 
scrambled  into  Quilleiiez's  loft,  and  cut  loose  the 
friendly  rope  with  his  knife.  He  then  let  down 
the  sash,  and  pushed  in  at  its  top,  a  stout  nail  that 
he  found  on  the  sill. 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  that  was  almost  a  sob 
—and  loolced  about  him. 

It  was  a  rude  attic,  low-ceiled,  and  at  that 
season,  intensely  hot.  Some  winged  thing— a 
Avasp  or  a  blue-bottle  fly— had  sailed  in  from  the 
sunny  outside  world,  and  was  buzzing  loudly  as 
it  beat  itself  dully,  in  impotent  captivity,  gainst 
the  small  window-pane,  or  the  cobwebbed  rafters. 
The  place  was  bare  of  furniture.  The  walls 
were  of  loose  boards,  and  through  a  chink  in 
them.  Grindstone  could  see  the  awful  slaughter 
still  going  on  in  the  grounds  of  the  post. 

He  saw  the  dead  scalped  and  mangled ;  and 
heard  the  dying  still  groaning  or  shrieking,  as 
their  bodies  were  ripped  open  by  their  Indian 
butchers. 

Shuddering,  he  watched  those  demons  in  sav- 
age shape,  tear  out  the  hearts  of  their  victims, 
and  actually  drink  their  blood,  which  they 
scooped  up  in  the  hollow  of  their  joined  hands, 
and  quaffed,  with  shouts  of  victorious  rage. 


lis  tight-rope, 

dav  that  had 
window,  as  he 
I  cut  loose  the 
then  let  down 
stout  nail  that 

,s  almost  a  sob 

and  at  that 
iged  thing — a 
ed  in  from  the 
:zing  loudly  as 
3tivity,  njjainst 
tvebbed  rafters, 
re.  The  walls 
gh  a  chink  in 
iwful  slaughter 
le  post. 

mangled ;  and 
or  shrieking,  as 
y  their  Indian 

demons  in  sav- 
f  their  victims, 
i,  which  thejr 
r  joined  hands, 
rious  rage. 


A  FATAL  GAME  OF  BALL. 


178 


It  was  a  perfect  orgie  of  murderous  hate  and 
revenge,  worthy  of  hell. 

In  a  few  moments,  the  awful  silence  of  complete 
annihilation  fell  upon  the  courtyard ;  and  then, 
to  Timothy's  horror,  he  heard  the  Indians  tramp- 
ing into  the  room  below  his  refuge. 

Nothing  but  a  single  layer  of  boards  shut  him 
off  from  their  sight ! 

Through  a  knot-hole  in  that  crazy  floor,  he  saw 
and  heard  all  that  passed  beneath  him. 

The  Indians  at  once  asked  old  Quilleriez  if 
there  were  any  Englishmen  about.  (And  Timo- 
thy now  knew  enough  of  their  lingo  to  under- 
stand their  questions.)  The  old  dandy  looked 
very  wise  and  consequential.  Part  of  his  fool- 
ishness was  a  desire  to  impress  the  savages  with 
a  profound  sense  of  his  own  importance.  He 
w^ould  have  them  believe  him  as  knowledgeable 
as  Solomon  himself. 

"  I  can't  say,"  was  his  pompous  reply  to  their 
queries.  "I  don't  know  of  any  Englishmen," 
(which  was  the  truth) :  "  but  you  may  search  for 
yourselves,  and  then  you'll  be  better  satisfied." 

Fancy  Timothy's  terror  on  hearing  this  per- 
mission I 

Tjembling,  be  glaxed  madly  about  him  for 
som0  ptmble  hiding'pla«e. 

In  the  darkest  corner  of  the  loft,  under  the 
sloping  rafters,  was  piled  a  great  heap  of  those 


tammSm' 


174 


LOT  LESLIi-'a   F  >LK8. 


basins  of  birch-b».k  which  Quilleriez,  Indian 
wife  used  (in  common  with  her  kind)  for  making 
maple-sugar. 

Like  lightnjug,  Timothy  sprang  to  this  retreat ; 
and,  while  the  miserable  ladder,  that  did  duty 
for  stairs,  creaked  under  the  weight  of  the  com- 
ing savages,  he  hid  himself  aa  well  as  he  could, 
among  the  friendly  birch  vessels. 

He  had  hardly  done  so,  before  the  door 
opened,  and  Quilleriez  came  in,  with  four  of  the 
biggest  Indians  he  had  ever  seen.  They  were 
armed  with  tomahawks,  and  be  smeared  with 
blood  from  head  to  foot. 

Timothy's  heart  beat  so  loud  at  the  hideous 
sight  of  them,  that  he  felt  sure  its  throbbing 
alone  would  betray  him.  But  his  corner  v^^as  so 
dark,  and  his  clothing  so  like  in  color  to  the 
birch-bark  that  covered  him,  that  he  escaped  the 
notice  of  the  Indians. 

It  was  in  his  favor,  too,  that  hey  were  all  very 
drunk,  having  already  swilled  freely  from  the 
fort's  rifled  liquor- supply. 

Yet,  he  almost  despaired  when  they  staggered 
several  times  around  the  loft,  even  tripping  over 
some  of  the  outlying  sugar-vessels— one  of  them, 
in  recovering  himself,  almost  laying  hold  of  Tim- 
otl  /'s  shoulder.  But,  after  blustering  about  with 
much  tipsy  boasting,  and  a  long  account  to  Quil- 
leriez of  how  many  English  they  had  killed,  that 


eriez,  Indian 
)  for  making 

this  retreat ; 
lat  did  duty 
t  of  the  com- 
as he  coald, 


>re  the  door 
,h  four  of  the 
They  were 
imeared  with 

t;  the  hideous 

its  throbbing 

corner  vras  so 

color  to  the 

le  escaped  the 

r  were  all  very 
eely  from  the 

;hey  staggered 
1  tripping  over 
— one  of  them, 
g  hold  of  Tim- 
ing about  with 
ccount  to  Quil- 
lad  killed,  that 


A  FATAL  GAME  OF  BALL. 


175 


day,  and  how  many  scalps  they  had  taken,  thoy 
all  reeled  oflf  downstairs,  leaving  Timothy  half- 
suffocated  by  the  stifling  heat,  and  dripping  with 
perspiration. 

Our  poor  friend  almost  fainted  from  the  reac- 
tion of  his  fright,  and  the  great  rush  of  gratitude 
to  God  for  His  mercies. 

Strangely  enough,  as  he  lay  there  upon  his 
face,  shedding  hot,  silent  tears  (which  were  no 
disgrace  to  his  manhood),  and  afraid  yet  to  stir 
— all  he  could  see  before  him  in  the  darkness 
was  the  altar  of  the  Jesuit's  church  at  the  As- 
sumption Mission  with  the  tapers  burning  redly 
upon  it,  and  the  venerable  man  in  his  strange 
garments  lifting  up  above  it  the  White  Wafer 
and  the  Golden  Cup.  And  he  found  himself 
saying  over  and  over  again  in  his  heart,  with- 
out knowing  why  he  did  so:  "God  of  the 
Jesuit,  i  adore  Thee !  God  of  Father  Armand, 
I  thank  Thee ! " 

After  all  was  quiet  downstairs,  and  the  pres- 
ent peril  seemingly  past,  Timothy  crept  out  from 
his  corner,  feeling  very  much  the  need  of  food, 
and  (still  more)  of  drink :  for  it  was  many  hours 
since  he  had  breakfasted  in  the  mess-room  of  the 

fort. 

He  was  weak  from  the  heat,  as  well,  and  ex 
hausted  by  the  great  strain  of  the  morning's 
fright  and  horror. 


.J 


176 


.  LOT  LESLIE'8  folks. 


.  A  feather-bed  lay  on  the  floor  of  the  garret, 
stored  there  for  the  winter's  use. 

Timothy  lay  down  upon  it;  and  soon  forgot 
the  discomforts  of  heat,  hunger,  and  thirst  in  a 
heavy  sleep. 


m 


.1^ 


the  garret, 


soon  forgot 
1  thirst  in  a 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  DBATH- 
MEETINO. 


-AN  UNEXPECTED 


Grindstone  was  awakened  by  a  loud  and 
smart  patter  of  rain  upon  the  roof.  As  he  lay, 
dreamily  and  drowsily,  listening  to  it,  he  heard 
the  water  pourii  n  upon  the  floor  from  a  break 
in  the  shingles  o^     lead. 

It  had  just  !■  nrred  to  him  that  he  might 
catch  this  lucky  downpour  in  one  of  the  birch- 
bark  bowls,  and,  with  it,  quench  his  now  burning 
thirst  when  he  was  startled  by  the  opening  of 
the  garret  door. 

The  dark,  sullen  face  of  a  squaw  that  looked  in 
upon  him,  gave  him  a  fresh  turn  of  terror. 

But  it  proved  to  be  the  Indian  wife  of  Quil- 
leriez. 

She  was,  naturally,  much  surprised  to  find  a 
strange  man  in  her  garret — dropped  down,  as  it 
were,  upon  her,  from  the  skies.  When  Timothy 
fell  upon  his  knees,  however,  and  made  speaking 
gestures,  craving  mercy  at  her  hands — she  man- 
aged to  make  him  understand  that  he  need  have 
no  further  tears — that  the  Indians  had  killed  all 
'he  English,  and  had  gone  away  for  good.    She 

ITT 


! 


178 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


soon  showed  him,  also,  what  had  brought  her  up 

to  the  loft. 

Hunting  up  some  old  rags  from  a  corner,  she 
proceeded  to  stop  the  hole  in  the  roof,  through 
which  the  rain  was  still  pouring. 

Timothy  at  once  hastened  to  help  her  as 
handily  as  he  could ;  and  when  their  task  wtA 
done,  he  let  her  know,  in  pantomine,  how  badly 
he  needed  food  and  drink. 

She  promised,  in  like  fashion,  to  bring  him 
both :  and  presently,  went  away  downstairs. 

Timothy  had  some  fears  as  to  her  good  faith ; 
but  he  felt  rebuked  when  she  returned,  in  a  short 
time,  with  a  substantial  mess  of  bread  and  meat 
on  a  platter,  and  a  jug  of  fresh  water. 

When  she  lef^  him  alone  again,  Timothy  fell 
to  eating  with  a  Keen  relish,  and  made  a  hearty 
meal,  despi. '  of  his  anxiety  as  to  what  might 
come  to  him  at  any  moment. 

Having  dispatched  all  the  food,  and  drank 
enough  water  to  satisfy  his  thirst,  he  knelt  down, 
and  thanked  God  in  simple  words  for  having 
spared  him  thus  far,  beseeching  Him  to  take  care' 
of  him  in  the  future,  and  direct  him  what  to  do 
to  escape  his  enemiep.  He  had  never  been  what 
is  called  a  religious  man :  but  his  life  had  been 
clean  and  honest ;  and  recent  events  had  shown 
him  forcibly  how  small  and  weak  is  man  in  times 
of  peril— how  great,   wise,  and  powerful,  the 


IN  THE  SHADOW   OF  DEATH, 


170 


ught  her  up 

,  corner,  she 
)of,  through 

lelp  her  as 
}ir  task  wal 
I,  how  badly 

bring  him 
trnstairs. 

good  faith ; 
ed,  in  a  short 
ad  and  meat 
ir. 

Timothy  fell 
[ade  a  hearty 

what  might 

I.  and  drank 
a  knelt  down, 
s  for  having 
1  to  take  care" 
ra  what  to  do 
^er  been  what 

life  had  been 
ts  had  shown 

man  in  times 
K)werfal,  the 


Providence    that    directs    the  destinies  of  the 
meanest. 

Much  comforted  by  his  supper,  and  much 
».rrengtliened  by  his  prayer,  Timothy  threw  him- 
self once  more  on  the  feather-bed,  and  presently, 
fed  fast  asleep. 

It  was  clear  daylight,  when  he  roused  again,  to 
hear  voices  disputing  in  the  room  below  him. 
He  soon  made  out  that  the  Indians  had  re- 
turned. 

They  were  urging  Quilleriez  to  give  up  to  them 
the  old  man  with  the  long  white  hair  and  beard 
who  had  come  to  the  post  with  the  English 
trader,  the  night  previous. 

Some  one  (they  said)  had  seen  him,  yes*'  r''ay, 
climbing  in  at  a  window  of  the  old  Frem  in vin's 
house. 

Timothy  had  forgotten  about  his  wig  and  false 
beard,  in  that  rapid  rush  of  dreadful  events. 

He  now  snatched  them  from  his  head  and  face, 
and  stuflfed  them  under  the  bed. 

He  heard  Quilleriez  trying  to  baffle  his  pur- 
surers:  but  his  wife,  in  a  low  voice,  and  in 
French,  waft  urging  her  man  to  give  up  the 
Yankee  to  them,  as  otherwise,  they  might  kill 
her  or  her  children,  in  revenge. 

The  husband,  after  brief  silence,  yielded  to 
her  fears.  He  told  the  ravages  that,  if  there 
were  an  Englishman  hidden  in  his  house,  it  was 


a  rJHOMJA-diiiV-JM/Mr.Vt^KH  F^flMUki^Wl^^iS^^i^'^ 


180 


LOT   LESLIK's   folks. 


without  his  knowledge,  and  against  his  wishes. 
To  prove  his  good  faith,  he  would  again  take 
them  upstairs  to  search  for  him. 

Timothy  now  felt  that  his  hour  had  come. 

He  made  no  further  attempt  to  hide  himself ; 
but,  when  the  door  of  the  room  was  flung  open, 
and  the  Indians  rushed  in  a  second  time,  he  rose 
up  quietly  from  the  bed,  and  stood  before  them, 
his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  white  and  silent  as 
a  marble  statue. 

The  savages  were  plainly  much  surprised,  and 
almost  overawed,  to  see,  instead  of  the  grey- 
beard they  were  seeking,  a  young,  brown-haired 
vigorous  man,  with  no  trace  of  beard  upon  his 

face. 
It  was  like  one  of  the  magical  tricks  of  their 

medicine-man. 

One  of  them,  a  great  savage,  six  feet  high  and 
over,  (who  towered  to  the  very  rafters  of  the 
low-ceiled  room)  was  covered  from  head  to  foot 
with  charcoal  and  greane,  except  for  two  hideous 
white  rings  around  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

Timothy  recognized  him  as  the  Indian  who 
had  slain  Henry  Alexander,  that  morning,  at  the 

gate. 

He  was  forced  to  lower  his  eyes,  as  he  saw, 
with  a  sickening  thrill  of  horror,  the  bloody 
scalp  of  his  dead  friend,  with  its  thick  mass  of 
yellow  hair,  dangling  from  the  brute's  belt. 


ft.-^-i7%^^,i^)i<iM:  v:V 


his  wishes, 
again  take 

d  come, 
ide  himself ; 
B  flung  open, 
time,  he  rose 
before  them, 
and  silent  as 

irprised,  and 
[of  the  grey- 
brown-haired 
iard  upon  his 

ricks  of  their 

feet  high  and 
afters  of  the 
I  head  to  foot 
r  two  hideous 
es. 

Indian  who 
)rning,  at  the 

3,  as  he  saw, 
',  the  bloody 
thick  mass  of 
e's  belt. 


W 


IN  THE  SHADOW   OF  DEATH. 


1^1 


Striding  up  to  Grindstone,  the  giant  seized 
him  by  tiie  collar,  and  |)ointed  at  his  breast  a  big 
carving-knife,  stolen  from  the  kitchen  of  the  fort. 

Timothy  mutely  recommended  his  soul  to 
God ;  and  met  the  horrid  eyes  oi  the  savage  with 
a  calm,  steady  gaze — the  simple  dignity  of  a 
brave  man  resigned  to  the  will  of  heaven. 

The  earnest  power  of  his  eye  seemed  to  subdue 
the  human  brute.  The  hand  that  held  the  knife 
dropped,  without  harming  him ;  and  the  Indian 
growled  to  his  fellows : 

"Take  him  downstairs!     We'll  not  kill  him 


now. 


In  the  room  below,  they  found  old  Quilleriez 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  conversing  confidentially 
with  a  priest. 

Timothy  knew  him  to  be  one  by  his  black 
gown  and  crucifix,  even  if  his  fine^  serious,  ascetic 
face  had  not  told  its  own  story. 

At  the  sight  of  him,  hope  revived  once  more  in 
the  poor  prisoner's  heart.  Hitherto,  he  had 
despaired  of  any  benefit  from  the  safe-conduct 
letters  he  carried.  It  had  seemed  uselete  to  pre- 
sent them  to  the  frenzied  savages,  or  the  time- 
serving Frenchman. 

One  of  his  hands  was  still  free.  From  his 
bosom,  he  drew  forth  Father  Armand's  letter, 
and  held  it  out  to  the  priest  with  a  world  of 
entreaty  in  his  honest  eyes. 


4 


\i 


'4 


ill- 


I 

11, 

ii 


iil: 


1S2 


LOT   LESLIK's   folks. 


The  Jesuit  unfolded  the  paper,  and  read  its 
contents,  surprise  and  pleasure  flushing  his  face, 
which  broke  into  a  beaming  smile. 

"You  are  a  friend  of  Father  Armand?"  he 
said  in  excellent  English  :  "  Ah  1  then,  you  are  the 
friend  of  a  saint !  He  was  my  best-loved  mate 
at  college.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  visit  him." 
"Take  me  with  you,  sir,  for  the  love  of 
heaven ! "  pleaded  Timothy,  also  in  English :  "  or 
these  brutes  will  murder  me ! " 

The  savages  had  closed  around  him,  and  were 
hustling  him,  as  he  spoke,  through  the  door  to 
the  road. 

"  Hold ! "  cried  the  priest  in  a  loud,  clear, 
commanding  voice,  laying  his  hand  on  the  pris- 
oner's shoulder,  and  bearing  himself  (Timothy 
thought)  with  the  soldierly  grace  and  courage  of 
a  general  reproving  refractory  insurgents: 
"  This  man  belongs  to  me !  Go  your  ways ;  and 
look  to  it,  that  you  stop  your  bloody  work,  and 
drink  no  more  rum  or  whiskey  to-day ! " 

The  Indians  instantly  slunk  away,  like  scolded 
children ;  and  Timothy  found  himself  safe,  and 
alone  with  the  Jesuit. 

"  How  shall  I  can  you,  sir,"  he  said  with  deep 
emotion :  "  that  I  may  thank  you  for  your  good- 
ness?" 

"  I  am  known  as  Father  Eugene,"  returned  the 
priest,  smiling :   "  and,  on  my  word,  you  have 


IN  THE  SHADOW   OF  DEATH. 


183 


nd  read  its 
ng  his  face, 

niand  ?  "  he 
,  you  are  the 
-loved  mate 
visit  him." 
;he  love  of 
Inglish :  "  or 

m,  and  were 
the  door  to 

loud,  clear, 
on  the  pris- 
jlf  (Timothy 
d  courage  of 
insurgents : 
r  ways ;  and 
[y  work,  and 

y!" 

,  like  scolded 

bU  safe,  and 

id  with  deep 
ir  your  good- 
returned  the 
i,  you  Jbftve 


> 


jnst  had  a  close  reckoning  with  death.  There's 
no  time  to  be  lost,  even  yet.  These  fellows  are 
very  unreliable  in  their  moods.  They  may  be 
back  again,  in  the  space  of  ten  minutes,  raging 
for  your  blood.  I  have  a  boat  out  yonder  on  the 
lake,  and  a  trusty  man  to  row  us." 

"  Let  us,  then,  be  off  at  once,  sir ! "  urged 
Timothy,  moving  towards  the  open  door. 

"  Best  go  by  way  of  the  cellar,"  suggested  old 
Qnilleriez,  who  had  just  returned  to  the  room, 
after  a  brief  absence. 

"  Good ! "  cried  the  priest,  with  a  nod  at  the 
Frenchman :  "  'twill  be  safer  than  the  road,  and 
may  prevent  unpleasant  encounters.  Follow  me, 
Master  Grindstone." 

And  Timothy,  with  a  grateful  heart,  was  soon 
tracking  Father  Eugene  down  a  rough  ladder  to 
the  cellar.  There,  they  struck  an  underground 
passage  that  led  to  the  shore  of  the  lake — now 
completely  deserted  by  the  Indians  and  their 
allies. 

Once  in  the  boat  awaiting  them  there,  (with  a 
stout  young  Canadian  to  row  them),  the  priest 
told  Timothy  that  Father  Arroand  was  lying 
very  ill  at  the  Assumption  Mission. 

He  had  had  a  letter  from  Father  Peter,  telling  of 
a  fresh  stroke  of  paralysis.  As  the  communica- 
tion was  now  several  v^eeks  old,  he  knew  not  if 
the  Superior  were  living  or  deadL 


li^H^MBfliMBM 


mmmm^s^'s^t^m^^mmms^msm 


mmmmmmammmmmmBmi^mam^^mi 


/ 


i 


■HHHn 


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^>. 


s; 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


iM    111112.0 


2.2 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 

IIIIW.  M.M.1M,UMU.  W  l|IJM.  MMUHJ  .      "'     'Hi""-".'.  I" '-HL.."!  LJ 


.Jo 


23  WfST  MAIN  STRHT 

WEBST»,N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microroproductions  /  Inttitut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  hittoriquas 


1 

I 


I 


I 


184 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


Grindstone  expressed  his  real  concern  at  this 
sad  news;  and,  as  the  day  wore  on,  growing 
more  and  more  at  his  ease  with  the  priest,  whose 
accent  puzzled  him :  and  recalling  what  he  had 
said  about  having  been  Father  Armand's  college- 
mate  in  France,  he  made  bold  to  ask  him  how  it 
came  to  pass  that  he  talked  English  not  only  ex- 
tremely well,  but  more  with  the  tongue  of  an 
Irishman  than  a  Frenchman. 

Father  Eugene  laughed,  and  good-naturedly 
explained  that  he  was,  indeed,  of  Irish  birth  and 
blood,  but  educated  mainly  in  France. 

"Somehow  or  other,"  he  added:  "in  spite  of 
many  years  of  the  *  Parlez^ous,*  I  have  never 
been  able  to  lose  a  touch  of  the  good  old  brogue 
from  my  tongue.  A^es-tout,  (although  you  may 
not  know  it,  my  friend),  the  Irish  brogue,  as  it  is 
called,  was  really  the  best  English  of  the  days  of 
Shakspere.  Old  Queen  Bess  herself  used  to  say 
cmiold  for  cold,  and  haU  for  heat.  If  she  were 
here,  this  minute,  (the  old  termagant  I )  she'd  say 
it's  a  mighty  cowM  evening  we're  having,  after 
all  the  hate  of  an  Indian  summer  day  1" 

There  was  truth  in  this,  as  well  as  fun ;  for  the 
air  had  ceased  to  be  balmy,  and  a  chill,  pene- 
trating mist  was  striking  the  voyagers,  from  the 
river.  Bat  Timothy  soon  found  the  priest  was 
prepared  for  the  emergency .  There  was  a  plenty 
of  warm  rugs  in  the  boat,  as,  also,  of  good  food 


\ 


noern  at  this 
on,  growing 
priest,  whose 
what  he  had 
ind's  college- 
c  hiro  how  it 
not  only  ex- 
ongue  of  an 

)od-naturedly 
ish  birth  and 
se. 

;  "  in  spite  of 
[  have  never 
>d  old  brogue 
)ugh  you  may 
rogue,  as  it  is 
»f  the  days  of 
If  used  to  say 
If  she  were 
it  I )  she'd  say 
having,  after 

lyl" 

8 fun;  for  the 
a  chill,  pene- 
^rs,  from  the 
.he  priest  was 
e  was  a  plenty 
,  of  good  food 


IN  THE  SHADOW   OF  DEATH- 


185 


< 


for  the  journey.  Being,  thus,  well  wrapped  and 
well-fed,  the  travellers  floated  comfortably  and 
peacefully  along  their  watery  way  to  northern 

New  York. 

The  great  lakes  safely  crossed,  they  drew  near, 
after  many  days,  to  the  mouth  of  the  Detroit 
river,  where  Timothy  resumed  his  white  wig  and 
beard,  as  a  precaution  against  spying  Caughne- 

wagas. 

It  was  not  until  he  held  little  Willy  once  more 
close  to  his  breast,  and  felt  the  boy's  warm  arms 
tighten  around  his  neck,  that  he  realized  how 
piecious  life  still  was  to  him,  after  all  the  dread- 
ful risKs  lie  had  suffered. 

Father  Peter  gave  the  visitors  a  hearty  wel- 
come ;  and  cheered  them  with  the  news  that  the 
Superior  still  lived,  although  badly  paralyzed. 

Word  had  come  from  Quebec,  to  fetch  the  in- 
valid home  to  rest ;  but,  although  it  was  a  mild, 
open  winter,  it  was  now  close  upon  Christmas, 
and  it  was  not  deemed  safe  to  travel  so  far  with 
so  helpless  a  charge  as  Father  Armand  in  his 
present  condition. 

Little  Willy  was  simply  devoted  to  him.  It 
was  his  joy  to  sit  near  him,  and  wait  upon  him ; 
and  Timothy  soon  saw  how  gentle  and  refined 
the  boy  had  grown  from  constant  companionship 
with  the  old  scholar  and  saint. 

He  was  not  much  surprised  when  the  little  fel- 


186 


LOT  LESLIE  S   FOLKS. 


low  came  to  him,  one  day,  (on  his  return  from  a 
visit  to  the  Belleperches — poor  Alexander's  rela- 
tives), and  begged  his  permission  to  become  a 
Catholic.  He  had  studied  the  Catechism  thor- 
oughly, (he  said)  and  if  Timothy,  as  his  guardian, 
would  only  give  consent,  Father  Peter  would 
baptize  him  on  Christmas  Eve. 

This  proposition  cost  the  good  Grindstone  con- 
siderable thought.  Although  he  did  not  yet  feel 
like  going  the  same  lengths  as  V/illy,  it  seemed 
to  him,  from  fiis  queer  experiences  in  his  first 
visit  to  the  Assumption  church,  and  in  the  garret 
of  Quilleriez,  the  day  after  Alexander's  murder — 
th?.t  the  religion  of  these  three  priests  he  had  en- 
countered, had  a  great  deal  in  it  that  was  both 
true  and  beautiful. 

Ignorance,  prejudice,  and  early  environment, 
had  blinded  him,  before  his  captivity,  to  any  real 
knowledge  of  Roman  Catholicism ;  but  his  long 
talks  with  Father  Eugene  in  the  boats,  and  on 
their  lonely  tramps  overland,  had  opened  his 
eyes  on  a  number  of  important  pointo,  so  that 
he  now  thought  it  safe  to  consent  to  the  boy's 
baptism. 

Willy  was  in  high  spirits  after  that,  varying 
his  quiet  times  of  study  in  the  Superior's  room, 
with  long  trots  through  the  snow  to  the  church, 
where  he  helped  Father  Peter  and  Father  Eugene 
to  decorate  the  sanctuary  for  Christmas. 


X 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 


187 


eturn  from  a 
zander's  rela- 
te become  a 
euhism  thor- 
his  guardian, 
Peter  would 

indstone  con- 
1  not  yet  feel 
ly,  it  seemed 
in  his  first 
in  the  garret 
jr's  murder — 
its  he  had  en- 
lat  was  both 

environment, 
y,  to  any  real 

but  his  long 
K)ats,  and  on 

opened  his 
tints,  so  that 

to  the  boy's 

that,  varying 
erior's  room, 
>  the  church, 
bther  Eugene 
mas. 


Timothy  himself  took  a  hand,  in  time,  at  clean- 
ing the  candlesticks  and  other  brass  ornaments, 
and  fetching  evergreens  from  the  forest  to  set 
around  the  altars  in  wooden  boxes.  He  felt 
quite  proud  when  he  succeeded,  under  Father 
Peter's  instructions,  in  stringing  the  spicy 
branches,  so  as  to  form  glistening  arches  of 
holly  and  spruce  for  ail  the  pillars  and  galleries 
of  the  house  of  God. 

A  Bethlehem  crib  was  put  up  near  one  of  the 
side-pltars;  and  Willy  nearly  went  wild  with 
delight  when  he  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the 
lovely,  lifelike  figures  of  the  Divine  Mother  and 
Babe,  of  St.  Joseph  and  the  a>nimals,  the  shep- 
herds and  the  kings,  that  Father  Peter  drew  from 
the  sacristy-closet,  and  set  in  their  places  in  the 
little  stable. 

When  all  was  finished,  it  was  Christmas  Eve. 
The  church  was  beautiful  to  behold,  being  like  a 
holy,  woodland  bower,  full  of  delicious  odors  of 
spice  and  sweetness. 

Timothy  (miniM  his  wig  and  beard  in  honor  of. 
the  occasion),  Willy,  and  the  Belleperohes,  were 
gathered  in  tiie  sacristy,  about  noon,  waiting, 
with  Father  Eugene  for  the  coming  of  Father 
Peter.  He  was  to  baptize  the  boy ;  and  unusually 
flushed  and  disturbed  was  his  merry  face  as,  at 
last,  he  hurried  in. 

*i  Madame,"  said  he,  courteously,  in  a  low  tone^ 


r 


188 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


to  Mistress  Belloperche,  the  only  woman  present : 
"  Willy  has  already  asked  you  to  be  his  godmother. 
May  I  now  trouble  you,  at  short  notice,  to  do  the 
same  kind  office  for  three  others  whom  I  shall 
presently  baptize  ?  " 

While  Madame  Belleperche — a  short,  round, 
rosy  old  lady— was  assenting  with  voluble  grace, 
Father  Peter  went  to  the  door  leading  to  the 
church,  and  beckoned  in  a  group  of  women 
waiting  there,  with  shawls  or  blankets  over  their 
heads. 

There  was  scarcely  time  to  note  that  two  of 
this  company  were  Indians,  and  three,  whites — 
before  a  strange  outcry  burst  forth  on  all  sides, 
such  as  had  never  before  been  heard  in  that  holy, 
silent  place : 
"  Timothy  Grindstone  1 " 
"  Pbudbnob  Skillet  ! " 
«  Faith  ! "  "  Hope  1 "  "  Wilson  ! " 
And,  in  an  instant,  the  five  wanderers  from 
Swan    Island,    so    tragically    separated— thus 
strangely  brought    together,  once  mor»— were 
clinging  to  each  other,  crying,  laughing,  talking 
all  at  once,  half-crazy  with  the  sudden  joy  of 
their  unexpected  reunion. 

Out  of  the  tumult,  at  last,  rose  the  shrill  voice 
of  Prudence,  who  leaned  half-exhausted  against 
Mary  and  Catharine  Tarbuki,  crying :  "  *  My  soul 
doth  magnify  the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  hath  re- 


m 


an  present : 
godmother, 
se,  to  do  the 
lom  I  shall 

lort,  round, 
tluble  grace, 
ding  to  the 
of  women 
ts  over  their 

that  two  of 
ee,  whites — 
on  all  sides, 
in  that  holy, 


Lderers  from 
arated — thus 
more — were 
bing,  talking 
dden  joy  of 

e  shrill  voice 
listed  against 
:  "*  My  soul 
drit  hath  re> 


IN  THE  SHADOW   OF  DEATH. 


189 


joiced  in  God  my  Saviour.'  .  .  .  'The sparrow 
hath  found  her  a  house,  and  the  turtle,  a  nest 
where  ihe  may  lay  her  young — Thine  altars,  O 
my  King  and  my  God  1 ' " 


CHAPTER  XrV. 


THB     8E0BBT 


OF     THE    SCALES,    AND    WHAT 
CAME  OF  IT. 


Summer  ha4  bloomed  early  and  sudden  in  the 
Indian  Mission  of  Lorette. 

A  long  spell  of  damp,  hot  weather  (almost  un- 
known to  that  high  latitude),  had  made  swift 
work  with  the  snowdrifts,  and  forced  everything 
green  into  warm  and  vivid  life. 

The  fields  were  covered  with  wild  flowers,  the 
soft  air  was  ulive  with  the  song  of  birds,  and, 
before  the  middle  of  June,  the  great  trees  of  the 
forest  rustled  their  full  robes,  and  whispered 
together,  like  overdressed  beauties  in  a  crowded 
ballroom. 

It  was  the  feast  of  St.  Anthony,  and  a  woi  der- 
ful  day  at  the  Mission.  All  the  long,  bright  morn- 
ing, the  Indians  had  been  coming  in,  from  nea/  or 
distant  settlements,  to  take  part  in  the  afternoon 
procession. 

Many  brought  their  tents  along,  and  pitched 
them  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  By  noon, 
Lorette  was  like  a  huge  beehive  with  its 
swarms  of  big  and  little  Indians,  running  hither 
and   thither,  chatting,  smoking,  wrestling,  or 

190 


AND    WHAT 

tttdden  in  the 

ir  (almost  un- 
1  made  swift 
d  everything 

1  flowers,  the 
>f  birds,  and, 
t  trees  of  the 
id  whispered 
in  a  crowded 

ind  a  woi  der- 
,  bright  mom- 
,  from  near  or 
the  afternoon 

f  and  pitched 
;e.  By  noon, 
ive  with  its 
inning  hither 
wrestling,  or 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  8CALK8. 


191 


painting  themselves  with  the  brightest  of  gaudy 
colors. 

The  great  statue  of  St.  Anthony,  in  its  green 
square  before  the  church,  was  the  chief  centre  of 
attraction. 

Crowds  of  Indians  stood  or  squatted  there,  lost 
in  admiration  of  the  jeweled  crown  upon  the 
head  of  the  saint  and  of  the  Divine  Infant  that  he 
carried ;  or  staring  delightedly  at  the  brave  show 
of  gilded  banners  that  glittered  and  v^aved  from 
out  huge  masses  of  white  and  red  roses,  about  the 
base  of  the  statue.  These  could  not  quite  hide 
the  Latin  inscription  on  the  pedestal,  that  read : 


Presented  to  the  Mission  at  Lorette 

BY  Louis  St.  Ange  and  Eileen,  his  wife, 

in  mf-mory  of  their  beloved  daughter,  marianne. 

June  the  Thirteenth,  a.  d.  1754. 


About  two  o'clock,  the  procession  began  to 
form,  as  far  out  on  the  edge  of  the  village  as 
where  the  visitors'  tents  were  pitched. 

The  lay  Brothers  of  the  Mission  were  kept 
busy,  going  to-  and  fro,  arranging  great  and  snail, 
young  and  old,  according  to  their  pro;  places 
in  the  ranks. 

It  was  a  charming  sight,  and  one  witnessed  no- 
where in  its  wild,  picturesque  beauty,  save  among 
the  Christianized  aborigines  of  the  New  World 


mmmmmmmm 


■nmnmiMiiM 


192 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


I'irst,  came  the  little  children,  two  and  two,  clad 
in  loose  gowns  of  white  cotton,  and  wearing 
wreaths  of  wild  flowers  on  their  pretty  heads. 
Each  carried  a  small  Indian  basket,  out  of  which, 
they  scattered,  as  they  went,  handfuls  of  rose- 
leaves  on  the  path. 

Next,  walked  the  maidens,  also  in  white,  white- 
veiled  and  flower-crowned,  their  double  rank  di- 
vided by  a  long  rope  of  scarlet  roses,  to  which 
each  slender  girl  held  fast  by  one  hand,  whilst 
she  grasped  her  rosary-beads  with  the  other. 

The  young  men  followed,  bearing  beautiful 
banners  of  gay  silk,  painted  with  pictures  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  of  the  saints,  and  embroidered 
with  gold  or  silver  tinsel  that  sparkled  brilliantly 
in  the  clear  sunlight.  These  were  the  work  and 
gift  of  the  Ursuline  nuns  of  Quebec. 

Here  and  there,  in  the  rajiks,  a  maiden  or  a 
youth  carried  rustic  cages  of  wicker-work,  con- 
taining white  doves,  red-breasted  robins,  or  other 
smaller  birds,  which  they  let  loose,  from  time  to 
time,  along  the  route.  The  soft  flutter  of  wings 
and  the  happy  twitter  of  the  released  captives 
mingled  with  the  sweet  strains  of  the  Litany  of 
Loretto,  sung  by  the  full,  melodious  voices  of  the 
marchers,  to  an  accompaniment  of  -native  ftites, 
fifes,  and  drums. 

The  old  people  Iwpt  step,  in  pairs,  as  gallantly 
as  the  young. 


-..n 


THE  SKCRET  OF  THE  SCALES. 


193 


md  two,  clad 
and  wearing 
pretty  heads, 
out  of  which, 
Ifuls  of  rose- 
white,  white- 
>uble  rank  di- 
»3es,  to  which 
hand,  whilst 
he  other, 
ing  beautiful 
ictures  of  the 
i  embroidered 
led  brilliantly 
the  work  and 

maiden  or  a 
£er-work,  con- 
)bins,  or  other 
,  from  time  to 
itter  of  wings 
Based  captives 
the  Litany  of 
B  voices  of  the 
:  native  ^tes, 

rs,  as  gallantly 


The  women  all  wore  white  veils  upon  their 
heads ;  and,  right  behind  the  plumed  and  painted 
n.en,  came  the  priest  of  the  Mission  in  gown  and 
surplice,  attended  by  a  score  of  Indian  acolytes 
in  their  scarlet  woollen  cossacks. 

Noticeable  among  these, was  a  handsome,  white- 
skinned  boy,  with  bright  auburn  hair,  carrying  a 
great  oraoifix  of  brass  that  glittered  like  gold  in 
the  sun. 

When  the  head  of  the  procession  reached  the 
statue  of  St.  Anthony,  the  two  long  ranks  sepa- 
rated in  front  of  it,  by  a  simultaneous  movement, 
leaving  a  broad  passageway  for  the  approach  of 
the  priest  and  his  acolytes  to  the  shrine. 

Father  Eugene  (for  it  was  he)  knelt  for  a  few 
moments  on  the  prayer-stool  at  the  foot  of  the 
statue:  and  then,  rising,  entoned  the  favorite 
hymn  of  St.  Anthony,  "O  Glorioaa  Domina^'' 
which  all  the  people  began,  at  once,  to  sing  with 
him,  with  great  sweetness  and  vigor : 

••O  glorious  Virgin,  erer  blest, 

All  danghteis  of  mankind  aboTe, 
Who  gavest  nurture  from  thy  breast 
To  God,  with  pure,  maternal  love, 

«  What  we  have  lest  through  sinful  ZVe, 
The  iHosson  sprang  from  thee-reslofest 
And,  granting  Miss  to  nouls  that  grieve, 
Unbars  the  everlasting  doors. 


IT 


lit 


''if 
iiii! 


IM.  LOT   LK8LIE'8   folks. 

«  O  Gate,  through  which  hath  puied  the  King  I 
O  Hall,  whence  light  ihone  through  the  gloom  t 
The  ransomed  nations  praise  and  sing 
The  Offspring  of  thy  virgin  womb  I 


<«  Praise  from  mankind,  and  heaven's  host 
To  Jesus  of  a  irirgin  sprung, 
To  Father  and  to  Holy  Ghost, 
Be  equal  glory  ever  sung  t " 

Turning  to  the  singers,  and  motioning  them 
with  his  hand  to  sit  down  upon  the  grass,  as  the 
Divine  Master  did  of  yore  to  the  multitudes  who 
followed  Him  in  Judea,  the  priest  began  to  speak 
to  them  in  simple  words,  (and  in  their  own  tongue) 
of  the  great  St.  Anthony— of  his  glory  and  power, 
both  in  heaven  and  on  earth. 

While  he  was  telling  them  of  the  saint's  devout 
life  among  the  Augustines  at  Lisbon,  with  the 
Franciscans  in  Morocco,  and  later,  as  a  mighty 
missioner  in  Bologna  and  Padua,  where  he  died 
singing  the  0  Glorioaa  Domina  in  the  presence 
(as  he  declared)  of  the  glorious  Queen  of  heaven 
and  her  Divine  Son,  who  came  to  meet  him, — a 
small,  dark  woman,  in  the  white  cap  and  apron 
of  a  waiting-maid,  was  seen  coming  from  the 
near-by  Mission  house,  supporting  on  her  arm  a 
tall  lady  clad  in  deepest  mourning. 

They  noiselessly  drew  near  the  shrine,  the 
worshippers  making  way  for  them  as  they  came, 


i 


the  King! 
gh  the  gloom  I 

bt 
hort 


otioning  them 
le  grass,  as  the 
aultitudes  who 
began  to  speak 
sir  own  tongue) 
ory  and  power, 

9  saint's  devout 
sbon,  with  the 
r,  as  a  mighty 
where  he  died 
n  the  presence 
leen  of  heaven 
a  meet  him, — a 
cap  and  apron 
ling  from  the 
1^  on  her.  arm  a 

tie  shrine,  the 
i  as  they  came^ 


THK  iiKCVKT  OF  THE  8CALKS. 


195 


while  a  lay  Brother  set  down  at  the  iron-railing, 
a  prayer-stool  for  the  lady. 

She  knelt  upon  it,  bowing  low  her  head,  and 
hiding  her  face  in  the  thick  folds  of  the  long, 
black  veil  she  wore. 

Father  Eugene's  sympathetic  eye  fell  for  a 
moment  upon  the  graceful,  black-robed  figure, 
that  seemed  almost  bent  double  with  its  weight 
of  woe ;  but  a  peculiar  light,  ns  of  secret  exulta- 
tion, came  into  it,  as  he  went  on  to  tell  his 
listeners  a  little  story  of  the  saint  of  Padua. 

A  picture,  (he  said)  had  been  painted  by  a 
great  artist,  three  centuries  before,  for  a  grand 
church  in  Rome.  It  was  that  of  St.  Anthony. 
He  was  there  depicted  as  holding  in  his  right 
hand  a  big  book  on  which  rested  a  loaf  of  breail, 
whilst  his  left  hand  pressed  to  his  bosom  a  bright, 
glowing  flame. 

"What  signify  these  things,  my  children?" 
said  the  priest.  "  What  mean  this  loaf  of  bread 
— this  flame  of  fire?  The  fire  represents  St 
Anthony's  burning  love  for  Ood  and  his  fellov 
men.  The  broad  recalls  a  miracle  that  happenoJ 
in  Padua,  not  long  after  our  saint's  death.  Ch  se 
to  the  church  that  was  there  builded  to  hia 
honor,  a  baby  boy  named  Tomasino  was  drowned, 
while  playing  at  a  pond.  When  his  little  corpse 
was  taken  from  the  water,  his  mother,  half-crazy 
from  grief,  threw  herself  uprn  the  small,  drip- 


1;^ 


196 


LOT  LESLIE'S  FOLKS. 


wi- 


ping body,  crying  out  to  St.  A.nthony  that  if  he 
would  but  restore  her  son  to  her,  alive  and  well, 
she  vowed  to  give  to  the  poor  a  measure  of  corn, 
equal  to  the  weight  of  the  child.  Immediately, 
the  dead  boy  rose  up  in  living  beauty,  and  ran, 
smiling,  into  the  outstretched  arms  of  his  happy 
mother ! " 

A  sob  broke  from  the  breast  of  the  black- 
veiled  l.',dy  at  the  jprie-dieu.  She  bowed  her 
head  lov»  er  and  lower  upon  her  hands ;  but  again, 
the  strange,  exultant  light  came  into  Father 
Eugene's  eyes,  and  a  faint  smile  hovered  about 
his  firm  lips. 

"  To-day,  dear  children,"  he  continued,  looking 
around  upon  his  people :  "  to-day,  your  devoted 
friend,  your  generous  benefactress,  Madame  St. 
Ange,  is  about  to  renew  on  her  own  behalf,  the 
noble  offering  made  to  our  saint  by  the  poor 
mother  of  Padua,  more  than  five  hundred  and 
twenty  years  ago.  She  offers  to  the  poor  of  this 
mission,  a  measure  of  flour  equal  to  the  weight 
of  a  child  of  five  years — equal  to  what  might 
now  be  the  weight  of  her  little  lost  daughter, 
Marianne  St.  Ange.— Brother  Loyola,  see  to  it 
that  your  me  i  do  their  work ! " 

The  lay  Brother,  at  this  word  from  the  priest, 
made  a  sign  to  a  group  of  Indians  at  the  door  of 
the  Mission  strong-house,  close  at  hand.  Several 
of  these  powerful  fellows  immediately  brought 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SCALES. 


197 


>ny  that  if  he 
live  and  well, 
lasure  of  corn, 
Immediately, 
Et.uty,  and  ran, 
t  of  his  happy 

of  the  black- 
le  bowed  her 
ds;  but  again, 
I  into  Father 
bovered  about 

inued,  looking 
your  devoted 
I,  Madame  St. 
kvn  behalf,  the 
,  by  the  poor 
hundred  and 
le  poor  of  this 
to  the  weight 
0  what  might 
lost  daughter, 
pla,  see  to  it 

•om  the  priest, 
at  the  door  of 
tand.  Several 
lately  brought 


forward  an  enormous  pair  of  scales,  while  the 
rest  lugged  to  the  front  of  the  shrine,  some  huge 
bags  of  flour.  ^^ 

"  When  the  grain  of  this  meal  was  first  planted, 
said  Father  Eugene,  "you  must  know,  my  dear 
children,  that  I  went  about  the  field,  sprinkling 
it  with  holy  water,  and   saying  these  solemn 
words:  'Bless,  0  Lord,  this  seed,  and  through 
the  merits  ofmr  Uessed  father,  St.  Anthony,  deign 
to  multiply  it,  and  cause  it  to  bring  forth  frutt 
a  hundredfold,  and  j>reserve  it  from  lightning 
and  tempest.    Who  livest  and  reignest,  world  with- 
out end,  Amen.'    Praise  to  God's  goodness,  it 
has  multiplied,  it  has  brought  forth  fruit  a  hun- 
dredfold !    Now,  all  that  we  need  is  the  weight 
Avhereby  to  test  the  measure.    Joseph ! "  said  he 
aside  to  the  white  acolyte  who  held  the  crucifix, 
«tell  N'-o-kum  to  fetch  the  child  without  delay." 
"Pardon,    my  Father,"    interposed   Brother 
Loyola,  "but  the  infant  is  already  in  the  bal- 
ance." 

And  Father  Eugene,  stepping  closer  to  the 
scales,  had  to  bite  back  the  smile  upon  his  lips, 
as  he  saw  the  plump  form  of  a  little  girl  curled 
up,  asleep,  iu  the  deep  dish  of  the  balance. 

He  quickly  recovered  himself,  however,  slip- 
ping on  his  stole,  as  the  Indians,  instructed  by  the 
]&y  Brother,  began  to  shovel  the  fair  white  flour 
from  the  sacks  into  the  empty  balance  of  the 


111 


11 


198 


LOT  LESLIE*8   FOLKS 


scales.    Then,  he  proceeded  to  read  from  his  old- 
time  Ritual,  as  follows : 

"Blessing  of  corn  of  the  weight  of  a 
CHILD — Benedictio  ad  pondus  pueH : 

""Wd  humbly  beseech  Thy  clemency,  O  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  through  the  merits  and  prayers  of 
our  most  glorious  father  St.  Anthony,  that  Thou 
wouldst  deign  to  preserve  from  ill,  fits,  plague, 
epidemic,  fever,  and  mortality  this.  Thy  servant, 
whom  in  Thy  name,  and  in  honor  of  our  blessed 
father  St.  Anthony,  we  place  in  this  balance  with 
wheat,  the  weight  of  her  body,  for  the  comfort 
uf  the  poor.  .  .  .  Deign  to  give  her  length 
of  days,  and  permit  her  to  attain  the  evening  of 
life ;  and,  by  the  merits  and  prayers  of  the  Saint 
we  invoke,  grant  her  a  portion  of  Thy  holy  and 
eternal  inheritance,  guarding  and  preserving  her 
from  all  her  enemies.  Who  livest  and  reignest 
with  the  Father  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  world  with- 
out end.    Amen." 

Dipping  his  sprinkler  in  the  silver  vessel  which 
JoEjph  held  toward  him,  the  priest  finished  the 
benediction  with  a  plentiful  dash  of  the  holy 
water  over  both  balances  of  the  scales,  now  rest- 
ing evenly  on  their  standard. 

A  queer  little  scream  came  from  the  humau 
side  of  the  scales !  The  cold  water  on  her  face 
had  awakened  the  little  one  from  her  nap. 


rom  his  old- 


IGHT   OF  A 

t 

cy,  O  Lord 
i  prayers  of 
r,  that  Thou 
fits,  plague, 
rhy  servant, 
our  hlessed 
)alance  with 
the  comfort 
B  her  length 
B  evening  of 
of  the  Saint 
hy  holy  and 
eserving  her 
sind  reignest 
world  with- 

vessel  which 
finished  the 
of  the  holy 
88,  now  rest- 

the  huraau 
on  her  face 
*  nap. 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SCALES. 


199 


She  scrambled  to  her  feet,  and  tried  to  stand 
upright  in  the  dish— holding  fast  with  plump 
fingers  to  its  riui,  as  it  wobbled  about,  and  star- 
ing over  it,  bewildered  and  only  half-awake,  at 
the  throng  of  dark  faces  before  her.  A  murmur 
of  admiration  went  up,  on  every  side,  even  from 
the  Indians. 

She  was  all  in  white,  with  a  wreath  of  wild 
flowers  on  her  pretty  head—a  lovely,  rosy  little 
girl,  with  great,  black,  wonderful  eyes,  almost 
velvety  in  their  softness,  and  damp  rings  of  red- 
gold  hair  curling  upon  her  broad,  white  forehead. 

Her  dimpled  neck  and  arms  were  bare,  and 
drops  of  holy  water  glittered  on  them,  lil  e  dew- 
drops  upon  fresh  lilies. 

Madame  St.  Ange  hearing  the  murmur  from 
the  crowd,  and  feeling  oppressed  by  the  heat, 
flung  back  her  long,  black  veil,  and  found  her- 
self face  to  face  with  this  amazing— this  most 
charming  apparition. 

"Mamma,  dear  little  mamma!"  cried  the 
Weight  in  the  balance,  making  frantic  efforts  to 
leap  from  the  uish. 

It  was  too  touch  for  the  heart  and  nerves  of 
the  poor,  overwrought  lady. 

With  a  heavy  sigh,  and  a  murmured : 

"  Marianne,  at  last !  St.  Anthony  be  praised 
and  thanketl !  "—she  reeled,  and  fell  in  a  deep 
swoon  into  Margot's  faithful  arms. 


200 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


When  she  came  to  herself,  she  was  in  a  room 
of  the  Mission  house  with  her  maid  and  Father 

Eugene. 

Lying  there  upon  a  rude  couch,  in  happy  weak- 
ness and  languor,  she  could  hear  softly,  yet  dis- 
tinctly, the  voices  of  the  Indians  in  the  distance, 
chanting  a  musical  chorus.  They  were  singing 
the  Hymn  to  St.  Anthony,  as  their  solemn  proces- 
sion marched  back,  in  the  red  light  of  the  setting 
sun,  to  its  starting-point  at  the  tents. 

Madame  listened  dreamily  to  these  words  that 
St.  Bonaventure  wrote  in  honor  of  his  holy 
friend : 

"  If  then  you  ask  for  miracles. 
Death,  error,  all  calamities. 
The  leprosy  and  demons  fly, 
And  health  succeeds  infirmities. 

"The  hungry  seas  forego  their  prey, 
The  prisoner's  cruel  chains  give  vay. 
While  palsied  limbs  and  treasures  lost 
Both  young  and  old,  recovered,  bout. 

"  And  perils  perish,  plenty's  hoard 
Is  heaped  on  hunger's  famished  board : 
Let  those  relate  who  know  it  well. 
Let  Padua  of  her  patron  tell  I " 

The  priest  drew  near  the  couch  whereon  the 
lady  lay,  and  stooped  over  her,  feeling  her  pulse 
with  a  skilful  touch. 

Margot   curtsied    to    him,   and    quitted   the 


THE  SECRET  OP  THE  SCALES. 


201 


ras  in  a  room 
il  and  Father 

1  happy  weak- 
oftly,  yet  dis- 
the  distance, 
were  singing 
olemn  proces- 
of  the  setting 

8. 

ise  words  that 
of  his  holy 


rey, 
s  vajr, 
resloit 
,bout. 

rd 

1  board: 

ell, 


h  whereon  the 
;ling  her  pulse 

i    quitted   the 


room.    It  was  easy  to  surmise  whither  she  had 
gone,  and  for  what  purpose. 

♦'You  are  better,  my  child?"  said  Father 
Eugene  presently,  in  a  very  gentle  voice. 

"  Was  it  a  dream  ? "  the  lady  answered,  for- 
getting herself  and  her  weakness :  "  or  did  I 
really  see  my  darling,  my  little  Marianne  again? 
Tell  me  the  truth,  my  Father,  and  I  shall  believe 
you,  although  I  know  you  not.  They  told  me 
Father  Armand  was  here." 

"Father  Armand  is  here,"  said  the  priest: 
"  but  too  ill  to  leave  his  bed.  You  have  really 
seen  your  little  daughter,  and  in  a  few  moments, 
when  you  are  better,  you  shall  see  her  again,  and 
take  her  home  with  you." 

He  paused,  and  looked  steadfastly  at  her,  be- 
fore he  added : 

"  Are  you  strong  enough,  my  child,  to  support 
another  surprise  ?  " 

Her  lovely  eyes  dilated,  and  she  grew  a  shaxie 
paler  about  her  lips ;  but  she  smiled  in  his  face 
with  the  trustfulness  of  a  little  child  looking  up 
to  its  father  for  comfort. 

"  Eileen ! ""  said  he,  and  his  voice  trembled  a 
little :  "  do  you  not  know  me  ?  But  why  should 
I  ask  it?  You  were  but  a  child  when  I  went 
away  to  college.  I  am  your  father's  brother, 
Eugene  O'Connell ! " 
*" Thanks  be  to  God!"  was  all  she  said,  but 


fT 


i 


I 


202 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


the  happy  light  deepened  in  her  eyes,  and  the 
warm  color  in  her  pale  cheeks. 

"But  Louis,  your  husband?"  questioned  Fa- 
ther Eugene :  "  does  that  black  dress  you  wear, 
—that  widow's  cap  upon  your  young  head,  mean 
that " 

"  He  died  less  than  a  year  gone,  heaven  rest 
his  precious  soul  1 "  murmured  Eileen,  as  she 
wip^  away  a  tear.  "  He  was  lost  in  the  forest 
of  Detroit  for  a  day  and  night,  last  autumn  was 
a  year.  At  his  age,  the  exposure  and  strain  were 
fatal.  He  never  recovered  from  the  fever  that 
followed." 

"Mamma,  mammal  I  want  my  mammal" 
cried  a  sweet,  wilful  voice  at  the  door,  and  little 
Love  Leslie  burst  into  the  room,  like  a  small 
whirlwind,  escaping  gleefully  from  the  clutches 
of  Margot,  who  pursued  her  with  a  little  garden- 
hat  in  her  hand.  She  darted  straight  into  Ma- 
dame's  outstretched  arras,  like  a  wild  bird  into 
its  nest,  and  cuddled  close  to  her,  while  the  bliss- 
ful Eileen  showeretl  kisses  of  passionate  warmth 
upon  the  tender  cheek,  and  brow,  and  lips. 

The  touch  of  the  child,  the  sound  of  her  merry 
voice,  her  soft,  warm  pressure  on  her  bosom  and 
arms,  seemed  to  revive  Eileen  as  with  a  life-giv- 
ing cordial ;  and  presently,  to  Father  Eugene's 
surprise,  she  stood  up,  and  began  to  straighten 
Love's  tumbled  dress  and  ringlets.    Then,  with 


es,  and  the 

stioned  Fa- 
s  you  wear, 
head,  mean 

heaven  rest 
)en,  as  she 
n  the  forest 
lutumn  was 
strain  were 
fever  that 

mamma  I " 
r,  and  little 
ike  a  small 
the  clutches 
ittle  garden- 
^ht  into  Ma- 
id bird  into 
lie  the  bliss- 
late  warmth 
d  lips. 

)f  her  merry 
r  bosom  and 
th  a  life-giv- 
er Eugene's 
o  straighten 

Then,  with 


THE  SECUET   OF  THE  SCALES. 


208 


Margot's  assistance,  she  tied  on  her  own  bonnet, 
and  expressed  herself  as  strong  enough  to  depart 
for  Quebec,  where  she  had  been  staying  with 
some  friends  of  her  husband. 

As  it  was  only  eight  miles  distant,  and  her 
own  handsome  coach  and  horses  were  at  hand  to 
convey  her  thither,  her  uncle  could  make  no  ob- 
jections. 

She  would  gladly  have  carried  him  oflf  with 
her,  then  and  there,  but  it  was  impossible. 

Promising  to  visit  her  at  Montreal,  (his  own 
duties  permitting)  as  soon  as  she  should  be  set- 
tled again  at  home,  the  priest  took  little  Love  by 
the  hand  to  lead  her  to  the  carriage. 

But  that  strong-spirited  young  lady  soon 
showed  them  that  she  had  a  mind  of  her  own- 
that  she  did  not  intend  to  turn  her  back  ungrate- 
fully upon  the  one  friend  she  valued  most  at 
Lorette.  Even  the  delightful  prospect  of  riding 
home,  like  Princess  Belle^Ue  in  a  beautiful 
chariot,  could  not  tempt  her  from  her  allegiance. 

"Mammal"  she  cried,  stopping  short  with  n 
bewitching  smile  and  gesture :  "I  can't  go  home 
without  Joseph ! " 

"And  what,  pray,  is  Joseph?"  aaked  Eileen 
highly  amused  (we  are  sOTry  tp«ay)  at  her  darl- 
ing's wilfulness :  ^'is  it  a  dog,  or  a  oat,  or  a  wild 
Indian?" 

"  Wait,  till  you  see,,  little  mamma,"  said  Love, 


204 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


trotting  with  basiness-like  alacrity  to  the  door  of 
the  room.  "  He's  just  outside  here,  in  the  hall, 
where  I  told  him  to  stay  I " 

And,  in  a  moment,  she  was  back  again,  like  a 
(lancing  sunbeam,  pulling  in  with  her  Joseph,  the 
acolyte,  now  in  his  Indian  dress,  and  looking 
rather  red  and  frightened. 

"  It's  a  wild  Indian  after  all ! "  sighed  Madame 
in  despair ;  then,  suddenly  struck  by  the  strong 
likeness  between  the  children,  as  they  stood, 
hand  in  hand,  before  her : 

"  Who  is  this  boy  ?  "  she  asked,  almost  sharply, 
of  Father  Eugene,  who  was  laughing,  and  pinch- 
ing Joseph's  blushing  cheek. 

"A  pet  of  Father  Armand,"  returned  the 
priest.  "  He  accompanied  him  hither,  with  me, 
from  t.he  Huron  Mission.  I  don't  see  how  he 
will  part  with  him." 

"  Father  Armand  said  he  would  let  me  go,  if 
Madame  wished  it,"  said  the  little  fellow  quietly : 
"although  if  it  were  not  for  Marianne  (whom  I 
love),  I  would  be  very  loath  to  leave  him." 

Father  Eugene,  looking  keenly  at  the  boy's 
bright,  manly  face,  suddenly  remembered  thd 
re6ord  of  the  Leslie  family  that  Father  Peter  had 
sbcywn  hon  at  the  Aasmnfttion  ]tiiaioii>  wlwa  he 
tola  him  Tiraothy»rthrillmg  story. 

He  drew  closer  to  his  niece,  and  spoke  to  her 
in  a  whisper : 


■HUH 


o  the  door  of 
B,  in  the  hall, 

again,  like  a 
r  Joseph,  the 
and  looking 

rhed  Madame 

ty  the  strong 

they  stood, 

most  sharply, 
ig,  and  pinoh- 

retumed  the 
her,  with  me, 
\,  see  how  he 

let  me  go,  if 
sllow  quietly : 
inne  (whom  I 
e  him." 
at  the  boy's 
lemberod  thd 
ber  Peter  had 
■OH)  wlwa  he 

■poke  to  her 


THE  8ECRKT   OF  THE  SCALES. 


205 


"  There's  more  in  this  matter,  I  begin  to  think, 
than  appears  on  the  surface.  Better  not  separate 
the  children,  Eileen.  Take  Joseph  with  you,  at 
least  for  the  present.  If  you  find,  later  on,  that 
he  does  not  suit  you,  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to 
return  him  to  us." 

So  it  fell  out,  that  Love,  as  usual,  had  her  way, 
pushing  Joseph  ahead  of  her  into  the  family  car- 
riage; and  Madame  and  her  maid  presently 
drove  oflf  with  them  to  Quebec,  Margot  mutter- 
ing, as  she  went,  in  her  corner  of  the  coach : 

"Weill  well!  Monsieur  St.  Antoine  never 
does  things  by  halves !  He  has  not  only  given 
back  Madame,  her  daughter,  but  presented  her, 
at  the  same  time,  with  a  son !  Grace  d  M.  St. 
Antoine/** 


i^ 


x^ 


lAIA 


1*1 


■miBSIIBMI 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  DISCOVERY   AND   A  DILEMMA. 

It  waa  well  on  toward  the  summer  of  1767, 
before  Brother  La  Tour  could  spare  Timothy 
Grindstone.  He  had  proved  himself  most  useful 
to  Brother  Regis  in  the  work  of  the  Mission 
storehouse;  but,  when  the  days  began  to 
lengthen,  Father  Peter  made  a  long-intended 

change. 

He  sent  the  honest  fellow  to  oversee  the  Mis- 
sion farm  at  Bois  Blanc.  Timothy  was  glad  of 
the  furlough  to  green  fields,  and  outdoor  work 
under  the  blue  skies.  Life  at  the  farm  would  de- 
prive him,  it  was  true,  of  Willy's  constant  com- 
panionship, and  of  his  frequent  intercourse  with 
Prudence  and  the  girls  down  the  river.  But  it 
was  arranged  that  he  was  to  spend  every  Sun- 
day at  Assumption ;  and  as  Willy  visited  him  at 
Bois  Blanc  a  couple  of  times  a  week,  and  Pru- 
dence and  Mary  Tarbuki  were  often  sent  to  the 
farm  to  do  the  extra  washing,  scrubbing,  milk- 
ing and  mending.  Grindstone  bad  no  chance  to 
grow  lonesome  in  his  new  quarters. 

To  help  him  still  further  to  good  spirits,  Father 
Peter,  on  one  of  his  visits  to  the  farm,  rummaged 

306 


mm 


imam 


A  DI8C0VEBY   AND   A   DIL:!MMA. 


207 


omer  of  1767, 
pare  Timothy 
elf  most  useful 
)f  the  Mission 
lys  began  to 
long-intended 

irersee  the  Mis- 
iiy  was  glad  of 
outdoor  work 
farm  would  de- 
constant  com- 
itercourse  with 
)  river.  But  it 
and  every  Sun- 
'  visited  him  at 
week,  and  Pru- 
ften  sent  to  the 
Drubbing,  milk- 
i  no  chance  to 

•8. 

1  spirits,  Father 
irm,  rummaged 


out  of  a  closet  an  old  violin  that  had  belonged  to 
a  dead  lay  Brother,  and  gave  it  to  Timothy. 

He  had  been  used  to  play  the  fiddle  by  ear  in 
the  happy,  bygone  days  at  Swan  Island ;  and  it 
was  surprising  what  a  spice  of  contentment  and 
good  cheer,  this  gift  imparted  to  the  new  over- 
seer. 

He  delighted  to  clean  himself  up  after  supper ; 
and  spent  the  best  part  of  his  evenings,  after  his 
hard  day's  work,  fiddling  away  at  his  old- 
fashioned  tunes. 

Willy  was  enchanted  with  the  music.  He 
kept  so  close  to  his  friend's  elbow,  on  such  occa- 
sions, that  he  scarce  had  room  to  draw  his  bow. 
It  did  the  player's  heart  good,  to  see  the  boy 
laugh  till  the  tears  "an  down  his  cheeks,  when  a 
couple  of  the  farm-hands  danced  a  jig,  as  they 
sometimes  did,  on  the  floor  of  the  big  kitchen  (or, 
as  it  grew  warmer,  on  the  green  outside)  to  the 
lively  strains  of  Timothy's  fiddle,  in  Money  Mmk, 
or  Feter*s  Street  Those  were  happy,  peaceful 
days  for  the  good  Grindstone.  The  first  shadow 
cast  upon  them  was  that  of  Willy's  departure 
with  Father  Armand  to  Canada. 

The  milder  weather  and  a  slight  improvement 
in  his  condition,  at  last  allowed  the  sick  priest  to 
travel,  by  slow  stages,  to  the  house  of  his  rest. 
Father  Eugene  being  on  hand  to  conduct  hinr 
safely  thither,  it  was  judged  best  that  Willy  (or 


208 


LOT  L£8LIK*S  FOLKS. 


Joseph,  as  they  called  hitn  by  his  baptismul 
name)  should  go  along,  also,  and  the  Provincial 
approving,  be  put  to  college  in  Quebec. 

So,  Timothy  went  over,  one  beautiful  June 
(lay,  to  the  Mission  house,  and  said  farewell  to  bis 
dear  little  friend. 

Then,  he  helped  Father  Peter  and  Father 
Eugene  to  lift  into  the  wagon  and  stretch  upon  a 
mattress,  the  almost  helpless  form  of  the 
Superior.  His  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears  as  he 
felt  on  his  head  the  touch  of  the  venerable  priest's 
white  and  wasted  hand,  and  heard  his  whispered : 
"  Ood  reward  you,  good  Timothy,  and  lead  you 
soon  to  the  perfect  light  of  Truth ! " 

The  wagon  was  rolling  slowly  away  to  the 
river-landing,  with  Willy  waving  his  hand  vigor- 
ously from  the  back,  before  Tim  discovered  that 
he  had  certain  companions  in  misery. 

Prudence  Skillet,  (whose  Christian  name  was 
Martha),  was  sniffling  away  at  his  elbow — too 
low  in  spirits  even  to  quote  her  favorite  texts  of 
Scripture — while  Faith  and  Hope  Leslie  (now 
Agnes  and  Helen)  sobbed  bitterly  beside  her, 
their  aprons  thrown  up,  disconsolately,  over  their 
heads. 

Father  Peter  came  to  the  rescue  on  the  spot, 
with  the  merry  and  wise  proposal  that  Timothy 
on  the  return  of  the  wagon  from  the  landing, 
should  take  Prudence  and  the  little  girls  back 


««M*i 


bapti8iiial 
)  Provincial 

JO. 

utiful  June 
rewell  to  his 

Emd  Father 
■etoh  upon  a 
rm    of   the 

tears  as  he 
able  priest's 

whispered : 
nd  lead  you 

iway  to  the 
hand  vigor- 
jovered  that 

a  name  was 
elbow — too 
rite  texts  of 
Leslie  (now 
beside  her, 
|r,  over  their 

on  the  spot, 
lat  Timothy 
^e  landing, 
»  girls  back 


▲  DISCOVKItY    AND    A   DILEMMA. 


209 


with  him  to  the  furni,  und  luuke  a  holiday  of  it, 
gathering  wild  flowers  for  our  Lady's  shrine. 

The  cheerful  priest  had  not  finished  a  decade 
of  his  beads,  before  the  horses,  Major  and  White- 
Back,  had  returned ;  and  the  wagon  was  rattling 
away  up  the  road  to  Bois  Blanc,  with  Tim  and 
his  friends  inside,  already  much  diverted  by  the 
change. 

When  they  reached  the  farm,  which  Grind- 
stone had  quitted  at  ilayUreak,  he  sent  Prudence 
and  the  girls  at  onoe  to  the  adjacent  woods,  to 
gather  the  altar-flowers,  promising  to  join  them 
as  soon  as  he  had  had  a  look  at  the  men  and  the 
stables. 

He  was  leading  Major  and  White-Back  round 
to  their  stalls,  when  one  of  the  hands  stopped 
him  for  a  word. 

He  was  a  Yankee  captive,  named  Pringle, 
whom  Father  Armand  had  redeemed  from  the 
Horons,  for  work  upon  the  farm. 

"  Stranger  in  the  mare's  stable,  sir,"  he  whis- 
pered to  Timothy.  '^Must'uv  slipped  in,  this 
momin',  when  you  was  takin'  out  the  beasts." 

*'When  did  you  find  him  there?"  asked 
Timothy,  startled,  yet  stem. 

**  Daybreak,  when  I  went  in  to  feed  Souria. 
He  wuz  a-lyin'  on  his  face  in  the  straw.  'Peared 
to  be  dnmk  or  sick-like,"  said  the  man. 

Timothy  hurried  toward  the  barn,  wild  vi- 


Il 


1.1 


III* 


ij,',i 


210 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


-fiions  of  Caughnewaga  spies  rushing  through  his 
brain. 

"  Your  axe,  Pringle ! "  he  turned  back  to  say 
to  the  other,  who  carried  one :  "  and  stand  ready 
to  fight  for  your  life,  if  necessary ! "  he  added. 

Then,  stepping  cautiously  into  the  stable,  he 
came  upon  the  stranger,  lying  in  the  straw,  al 
most  at  the  mare's  feet. 

The  first  look  at  him  gave  Timothy  to  know 
that  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  intruder. 

He  seemed  a  small,  insignificant  creature,  in 
shabby  clothing,  threadbare  and  dust-covered. 

His  old  rusty  hat  lay  beside  him,  and  his 
wretched  boots  were  broken  and  water-logged. 

He  lay,  face  downward  upon  the  straw,  as 
Pringle  had  described  him,  and  a  more  forlorn 
object  for  a  white  man,  Grindstone  had  never 
seen. 

"Hi,  th'ire!"  he  called,  seizing  the  shabby 
shoulder,  and  shaking  it  soundly.  No  answer 
came  from  the  living  scarecrow ;  and  Timothy, 
alarmed  at  his  silence,  promptly  turned  the  figure 
over  on  its  back. 

A  strong  ray  of  sunshine  from  the  stable-win- 
dow fell  full  upon  the  man's  face. 

Timothy  almost  jumped  out  of  his  skin  at  the 
sight  of  it. 

"Bless  my  heart!"  he  shouted:  "why  it's 
Lot  Leslie  himself!    And  he  looks  to  be  half- 


^laMita 


g  through  his 

1  back  to  say 
d  stand  ready 
"  he  added, 
the  stable,  he 
the  straw,  al 

lothy  to  know 
le  intruder, 
it  creature,  in 
ist-covered. 
him,  and  his 
ater-logged. 
the  straw,  as 
I  more  forlorn 
ne  had  never 

g  the  shabby 
.    No  answer 
and  Timothy, 
rned  the  figure 

the  stable-win- 

his  skin  at  the 

d:  "why  it's 
ks  to  be  half- 


A  DISCOVERY   AND   A  DILEMMA 


211 


dead.  Softly,  Sowria  !  Softly,  my  girl,  or  you'll 
step  on  the  poor  fellow,  and  finish  him  com- 
pletely!" 

The  mare  turned  her  bright,  intelligent  eyes 
upon  him,  whinnying  her  friendly  assurance,  that 
she  meant  no  harm  to  the  stranger. 

And,  there  was  Pringle,  in  the  very  nick  of 
time,  ready  to  fetch  a  shutter  from  one  of  the 
barn-windows,  and  help  Timothy  to  stretch  poor 
Lot  upon  it. 

In  this  fashion,  they  carried  him  over  to  the 

farmhouse. 

Timothy,  for  a  while,  almost  fancied  his  old 
master  to  be  dead— so  ashen,  limp,  and  lifeless 
did  he  appear,  when  they  laid  him  on  the  clean, 
comfortable  bed  upstairs. 

But,  after  they  had  covered  him  up  well  with 
blankets,  and  put  to  his  feet  stone  jugs  filled 
with  boiling  water,  the  warmth  revived  him 
wonderfully.  He  was  soon  able  to  take  a  smok- 
ing draught  of  liquor,  mulled  by  Timothy :  and, 
later  on,  some  hot  chicken-broth  that  Prudence 
made  for  him. 

For  she  ahd  the  girls  had  been  hurriedly  sum- 
moned from  the  woods  by  Pringle ;  and  the  ex- 
citement that  followed  their  arrival  at  the  farm 
would  be  difficult  to  describe. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  it  was  well  their  altar- 
flowers  were  gathered  in  advance;  for  no  one 


MUlJIIUBP.iiWMUWI 


2id 


LOT  LESLIK's   folks. 


had  time  for  the  rest  of  that  day  to  do  anything 
else,  save  wait  upon  Lot  Leslie — to  nurse  him, 
and  cook  for  him. 

The  poor  man  was  literally  starved  and  travel- 
worn. 

He  had  tramped  the  country,  for  weeks,  from 
the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Detroit,  with  little  food 
and  less  shelter — running  terrible  risks  on  field 
and  flood  from  wild  beasts  or  prowling  savages. 

The  loss  of  little  Love  at  Three  Rivers,  just 
Avhen  he  was  sure  of  carrying  her  back  to  New 
England,  her  open  aversion  to  him,  and  the  bitter 
reproaches  of  Wheelwright  on  his  return  to  the 
Golden,  Lamhy  had  almost  proved  a  death-blow 
to  a  constitution  never  strong,  and  already  under- 
mined by  many  sorrows  and  hardships. 

His  journey  from  the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  De- 
troit, in  his  weakened  conditio!  had  proven  a 
dreadful  experience.  Completely  exhausted  in 
body,  and  broken  in  spirit.  Lot  Leslie  had  crawled, 
that  morning,  into  the  stable  at  Bois  Blanc,  when 
Timothy's  back  was  turned ;  and,  with  his  blood 
freezing  to  ice,  in  that  darkest  hour  before  day, 
Imd  lain  down  to  die,  in  the  straw  at  Sourit*  feet. 

Later  on,  when  he  first  came  cut  of  his  dead 
faint  to  a  comforting  sense  of  a  soft,  warm  bed 
in  a  neat,  sunshiny  room :  when  he  looked  around 
to  discover  Timothy  and  Prudence  on  one  side, 
and  Faith  and  Hope  on  the  other,  while  his  nos- 


wmmwmjmwmm 


bo  do  anything 
-to  nurse  him, 

red  and  travel- 

or  weeks,  from 
nrith  little  food 
3  risks  on  field 
rling  savages. 
30  Rivers,  just 
•T  back  to  New 
,  and  the  bitter 
8  return  to  the 

a  death-blow 
already  under- 
ihips. 

mce  to  the  De- 
had  proven  a 

exhausted  in 
ie  had  crawled, 
>is  Blanc,  when 
with  his  blood 
mr  before  day, 
%t  Souru*  feet. 
:ut  of  his  dead 
M>f  t,  warm  bed 
I  looked  around 
ce  on  one  side, 
,  while  his  nos- 


A   DISCOVJiRY   AND  A   DILEMMA. 


21 :] 


trils  were  regaled  with  delicious  odors  of  hot 
spirits  and  savory  broth— the  poor  fellow  broke 
down  utterly,  and  cried  like  a  baby. 

But,  before  evening,  though  still  weal,  he  had 
grown  wonderfully  chipper.  At  sunset,  Pringle 
drove  Prudence  and  the  girls  back  to  the  settle- 
ment, leaving  Lot,  bolstered  up  in  bed,  with  a 
light  in  his  eyes  and  a  color  in  his  cheek,  almost 
like  those  of  the  old  days  at  home. 

Timothy  had  hard  lines  of  it  getting  him  to 
rest,  that  night.  He  had  so  much  to  tell,  so 
much  to  listen  to,  that  sleep  seemed  out  of  the 
question. 

At  last,  Tim,  honest  fellow,  remembered  his 
fiddle,  and  fetching  it,  played  softly  on  it  all  the 
old-time  tunes— full  of  the  sweetness  and  sadness 
of  Swan  Island  days. 

The  sound  of  the  sea  washing  on  the  rocks  at 
home,  the  voices  of  the  dead  wife  and  the  lost 
baby,  with  murmurs  of  the  salt  wind  blowing 
over  the  blossoming  marshes,  seemed  to  melt  into 
the  simple  music,  and  soothe  the  poor  tired  crea- 
ture to  rest. 

He  slept>  with  a  peaceful  smile  upon  his  lips ; 
and  Timothy  lay  down  beside  him,  comforted, 
and  dreamed  happy  dreams  of  Willy  and  of  one 
other  dear  one^  until  the  dawn  of  day. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning.  Father  Peter 
came  over  to  the  farm,  and  had  a  talk  with 


fT" 


11 


214 


LOT  LKSLIE's  FULKS. 


m 


it  J 


I. 


it 


Grindstone.  Pringle  and  Prudence  had  told 
him  all  about  the  tramp  in  the  stable.  Faith  and 
Hope  had  coaxed  him  to  let  their  father  stay  at 
the  farm,  at  least,  until  he  was  strong  enough  to 
trudge  away  elsewhere. 

The  good  priest  had  a  look  at  Lot,  and  a  chat 
with  him,  alone ;  and  ended  by  telling  Timothy 
to  feed  him  on  the  best,  and  clothe  him  well,  and, 
as  soon  as  he  should  be  lit  for  it,  to  give  him 
work  at  the  bam. 

So,  like  a  storm-tossed  bark  anchored  in  a  safe 
haven,  poor  Leslie  found  himself,  at  last,  the 
settled  inmate  of  a  comfortable  home,  with 
plenty  to  eat  and  to  wear. 

His  work  was  of  a  kind  he  understood  and 
liked ;  and  it  did  Aot  distress  him,  in  the  least,  to 
be  now  forced  to  take  his  orders  from  his  former 
serving-man. 

A  just  and  reasonable  master,  Timothy  proved 
himself  to  be ;  and  if  Lot  could  have  forgotten 
that  Willy  was  away  in  Canada,  and  little  Love, 
Heaven  alone  knew  where,  among  the  Indians — 
he  might  have  contented  himself  with  his  light 
tasks  about  the  farm,  and  looked  for  nothing 
more. 

But,  a  tender-hearted  creature,  was  Lot,  and 
passing  fond  of  his  own.  Many  a  night,  when 
Timothy  touched  the  bow  to  his  fiddle,  and  drew 
forth  the  sweet  strains  of  Wandering  Willy ^  or 


ice  had  told 
.9.  Faith  and 
father  stay  at 
)ng  enough  to 

ot,  and  a  chat 
ihng  Timothy 
him  well,  and, 
,j  to  give  him 

ored  in  a  safe 
,  at  last,  the 
)  home,  with 

iderstood  and 
in  the  least,  to 
>m  his  former 

mothy  proved 
:ave  forgotten 
id  little  Love, 
the  Indians — 
with  his  light 
1  for  nothing 

was  Lot,  and 
a.  night,  when 
Idle,  and  drew 
•ing  Willy  y  or 


A  DI8C0^*^BY   AND   A   DILEMMA. 


215 


My  love  m  like  the  red^  red  rose.,  the  hunger  for 
his  little  children  burned  in  him,  like  a  consum- 
ing fever,  and  the  big  tears  rolled  down  his  sal- 
low, sunken  cheeks. 

His  two  elder  girls  oiften  came  to  see  him,  and 
Mary  Tarbuki  always  made  him  Avelcome  to  her 
lodge ;  but  plain,  commonplace  Faith  and  sickly, 
scrawny  Hope  (who  wei .  their  father's  feminine 
counterpart),  could  not  console  him  for  the  ab- 
sence of  the  two  bright,  handsome  life  ones — 
the  pride  of  his  heart — in  whom  thf  lost  moth- 
er's comeliness  lived  again. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that,  after  some  months  of 
peaceful,  wholesome  labor  at  Bois  Blanc,  Lot 
gave  Timothy  to  understand  that  he  could  con- 
tent himself  no  longer.  The  keen  longing  to 
seek  and  recover  his  lost  children  was  driving 
him,  day  and  night  (he  said)  to  take  to  the  road, 
once  more,  and  tramp  his  way  to  Canada. 

Grindstone  thought  it  a  foolish  quest.  He 
tried  to  convince  Lot  that  Willy  was  better  off 
than  he  knew — on  the  fair  way,  as  he  was,  to  be- 
come a  great  scholar ;  but  Lot's  only  answer  to 
him  was :  "  You're  not  a  father,  Tim,  and  you 
know  nothin'  about  the  feelin's  of  a  father !  "— 
which,  being  the  truth,  Timothy  could  say  no 
more ;  and  was  forced  to  let  him  go. 

Meantime,  Willy  and  Love  were  happy  as 


216 


LOT  LK8LIE'8   FOLKS. 


'I 


lambs  at  play,  in  the  handsome  old  house  at 
Montreal — every  hour  growing  nearer  and  dearer 
to  Madame  and  Margot. 

Love  had  begun  to  go  to  the  day  school  of  the 
Ursuline  nuns;  and  Willy  was  a  pupil  at  the 
Jesuits'  college,  not  far  off,  where  Father  Eugene 
arrived  from  Lorette,  in  course  of  time,  to  teach 
one  of  the  classes. 

He  told  Willy  that  his  dear  Father  Armand 
had  just  died  in  Quebec;  and  when  the  little 
fellow  turned  white  as  a  sheet,  and  burst  into 
tears  and  choking  sobs,  he  spoke  so  beautifully 
to  him  of  the  emptiness  of  all  earthly  things — of 
the  glorious  reward  Ood  reserves  for  such  pure, 
heroic  souls  as  his  venerable  friend's,  that  Willy 
could  not  continue  to  grieve  for  his  loss;  but 
labored  every  day,  more  and  more  to  profit  by 
his  instructions,  and  imitate  his  virtues. 

Before  Father  Eugene  had  had  a  chance  to 
visit  Eileen,  he  received  a  note  from  Margot — a 
secret,  mysteriout*  note  which  puzzled  him  greatly. 
It  read: 

"  Come  to  Madame,  my  mutresg,  as  toon  as  you 
ca/n.  There  is  something  very  wrong  with  her, 
something  which  she  hides  from  her  faithful 
Margot.    Be  discreet,  and  betray  me  not." 

The  children  were  out  at  play  in  the  great 
sunny  garden,  and  Eileen  St.  Ange  sat  alone  in 


KS. 


A  DISCOVERY   AND   A  DILEMM*. 


217 


ne  old  house  at 
learer  and  dearer 

lay  school  of  the 
i  a  pupil  at  the 
re  Father  Eugene 
of  time,  to  teach 

Father  Armand 
when  the  little 
t,  and  burst  into 
>ke  so  beautifully 
arthly  things — of 
^es  for  such  pure, 
end's,  that  Willy 
for  his  loss;  but 
nore  to  profit  by 
virtues. 

had  a  chance  to 
!  from  Margot — a 
zzled  him  greatly. 


9sg,  as  soon  as  you 
wrong  with  her, 
rom  her  faithfvl 
vy  me  no<." 

)lay  in  the  great 
&.nge  sat  alone  in 


her  charming  old  parlor,  when  Margot,  who  had 
been  on  the  watch  for  him,  ushered  Father 
Eugene  into  her  lady's  presence. 

It  was  a  beautiiui  room,  rich  with  furniture  of 
polished  rosewood.  There  were  costly  curtains 
of  velvet,  and  silken  tapestries,  wrought  by  the 
dainty  fingers  of  the  master's  long-dead  anceb- 
tresses ;  and  all  about  the  lovely  young  mistress, 
were  strewn  curios  and  priceless  treasures  in 
gold  and  silver,  crystal  and  china,  from  old 
France,  heirlooms  of  the  high  and  ancient  family 
of  St.  Ange. 

Old-fashioned  Sfivres  bowls  filled  with  roses, 
and  set  here  and  there  on  oval,  spindle-legged 
tables,  shed  delicious,  musky  odors  on  the  dim 
air. 

But  Madame,  in  her  black  dress  and  snowy 
widow's  cap,  looked  thinner  and  paler  than  when 
her  uncle  had  last  seen  her. 

She  sat  before  an  antique  writing-desk  of 
ebony  and  pearl,  with  a  manuscript  of  parchmenc 
open  under  her  hand.  A  small,  but  exquisite, 
lamp  of  hammered  brass  and  amber  crystal 
burned  beside  her  ivory  casket  of  sealing-wax, 
exposed  with  her  amethyst  crest.  Its  isoft,  golden 
light  brought  into  relief  the  dark  circles  around 
her  brilliant  eyes,  and  deepened  the  sad,  drooping 
lines  drawn  about  the  delicate  lips. 

At  the  sound  of  the  priest's  entry,  she  rar 


218 


LOT  LESLIE  S   FOLKS. 


to  him  with  the  open-hearted  confidence  of  a 
troubled  child,  greeting  its  kind  father. 

"What  is  it,  dear  niece?"  asked  Father 
Eugene,  as  Eileen  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

"I  am  sorely  troubled,  my  uncle,"  she  an- 
swered, when  she  could  control  her  voice  suffi- 
ciently to  speak :  "  and  sadly  need  your  counsel, 
although  I  tremble  to  seek  it. — I  have  made  a 
strange  and  startling  discovery." 

The  priest  remaining  silent,  she  continued : 

"  Not  long  since,  whilst  searching  in  this  old 
desk  of  Louis'  for  a  lost  account-book,  I  came  un- 
expectedly upon  this  paper"  (she  laid  her  jeweled 
hand  upon  the  parchment  on  the  desk):  "It  is 
my  husband's  last  will  and  testament." 

"  The  one  he  executed  just  after  the  birth  of 
your  child — leaving  you  all  he  possessed  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  whispered,  with  white  lips :  "  one  of 
later  date,  of  which  I  was  wholly  ignorant.  He 
made  it  a  month  after  I  adopted  the  strange* 
child  that  N'-o-kum  sold  to  me.  TAm,"  (again 
touching  the  will),  "save  for  a  small  annuity,  to 
me  for  life, — leaves  house,  lands,  money — all 
he  owned,  in  short,  to  his  nephew  and  name- 
sake in  France,  the  young  Louis  St.  Ange ! " 

Father  Eugene  knit  his  brows,  and  the  hot 
blood  of  his  Irish  forefathers  rushed  to  his  cheek. 

"  What  was  his  motive  for  this,  think  you  ?  " 
he  asked  after  a  pause,  full  of  significance. 


confidence  of  a 
father. 

asked  Father 
t  into  tears, 
uncle,"  she  an- 
l  her  voice  sulli- 
ed your  counsel, 
—I  have  made  a 

le  continued : 
;hing  in  this  old 
book,  I  came  un- 
laid her  jeweled 
he  desk):  "It  is 
ment." 
Iter  the  birth  of 


ite  lips :  "  one  of 
y  ignorant.  He 
ted  the  strange* 
}.  TAm,"  (again 
imall  annuity,  to 
ads,  money — all 
phew  and  name- 
8t.  Ange  1 " 
nrs,  and  the  hot 
hed  to  his  cheek. 
\xis,  think  you  ?  " 
g^ificanoe. 


A  DI8C0VKBY   AND  A   DILEMMA. 


219 


"Pride  of  blood,  I  fear,"  she  answered.  "I 
knew  him  to  be  very  sensitive  on  the  score  of  his 
family  name ;  but  I  never  knew,  until  noWf  how 
fiercely  he  resented  my  giving  it  to  this  outcast 
child.  He  said  little  at  the  ti**  ^ :  but  privately, 
he  settled  the  matter  in  hia  own  aristocratic 
fashion." 

"And  everything  goes  to  this  nephew,  abso- 
lutely, and   at   once  ? "  questioned   the   priest. 

"  Absolutely— yes ;  at  once — no.  Young  Louis 
St.  Ange  is  to  inherit  all— save  my  pittance — 
when  he  comes  of  age.  That  will  not  be  for  five 
years  yet." 

"  Have  you  submitted  the  matter  to  your  fam- 
ily lawyer  ?  "  asked  Father  Eugene,  glancing  over 
the  parchment  on  the  desk. 

"Yes,"  returned  Eileen:  "but  without  any 
change  in  the  situation.  It  was  he  who  drew 
up  the  will  for  my  husband.  It  is  perfectly 
legal)  he  assures  me :  and  Mr.  St.  Ange  was  of 
sound,  disposing  mind  when  he  made  it.  The 
only  flaw  in  the  whole  proceeding  was  his  leav- 
ing it  in  this  old  desk,  instead  of  depositing  it  for 
safe-keeping  with  his  lawyer,  or  at  his  banker's. 
That  bit  of  carelessness  cost  me  a  terrible  temp- 
tation." 

She  broke  down  again,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

"It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  destroy  itl" 


^gm 


330 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


she  whispered :  "  I  was  sorely  tempted ;  not  for 
my  own  sake,  but  for  the  children's,  Uncle  Eu- 
gene. How  can  I  keep  them  and  educate  them, 
as  becomes  their  position,  on  the  paltry  pittance 
that  will  soon  be  all  I  can  ciiU  my  own  ?  " 

" '  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,' " 
said  the  priest  quietly.  ''We  have  five  long 
years  in  which  to  consider  this  question,  and 
prepare  for  the  worst.  God  alone  knows,  my 
child,  what  other  changes  five  years  may  bring  1 " 
'*  Mamma !  mamma ! "  screatned  little  Love, 
darting,  that  moment,  into  the  room,  followed  by 
VVilly^  "  Hide  us,  dear  little  mamma !  Lock  the 
door— quick!  Don't  let  that  horrid  little  man 
steal  me  again !  "■ 

"What  does  this  mean,  my  pet?"  cried 
Madame,  clasping  her  darling  to  her  breast,  and 
soothing  her,  as  one  might  soothe  a  frightened 
bird.    "  Where  is  '  that  horrid  little  man '  ?  " 

"  At  the  garden  gate,"  said  Willy,  who  was 
calm  and  grave. 

His  many  strange  and  sobering  experiences 
had  made  the  boy  precociously  old  and  serious 
in  his  ways. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  panned,  with  a  musing 
hesitation:  "  I  have  seen  him  somewheres before 
— a  long  time  ago.  The  gate  was  open.  Mari- 
anne and  I  were  looking  out  at  a  pedlar  with  his 
pack.    The  first  thing  we  knew,  the  man  was 


^'■•^ii^'llw^l4lM.^J^ 


4 


mm 


A   DISCOVERY   AND   A   DILKMUA. 


221 


ipted ;  not  for 
n's,  Uncle  Eu- 
eduoate  them, 
>altry  pittance 
own?" 
evil  thereof,' " 
tave  five  long 
question,  and 
ne  knows,  my 
8  may  bring ! " 
d  little  Love, 
m,  followed  by 
[iia !  Lock  the 
rid  little  man 

pet?"    cried 
her  breast,  and 
le  a  frightened 
leman'?" 
rilly,  who  waa 

ag  experiences 
old  and  serions 

with  a  musing 
tewheres  before 
u  open.  Mari- 
pedlar  with  hii 
,  the  man  waa 


staring  at  us,  and  pointing  his  finger,  screaming 
in  English :  *  There's  my  daughter !  That's  my 
son  !    Come  to  your  father,  little  Love ! ' " 

"That's  V(^hat  he  called  me  before,  when  he 
and  that  cross-eyed  man  stole  me  in  the  wagon ! " 
pouted  the  small  girl.  **  He  slobbered  all  over 
me,  saying  I  was  his  baby,  his  little  Love !  But 
I  ain't — I'm  my  mamma's  baby,  I'm  my  mamma's 
love ;  and  I  hate  that  horrid  little  dirty  mendi- 
antf" 

"  He  did  look  poor,"  said  Willy,  slowly :  "  but 
Father  Armand  told  me  once  that  it  was  a  good 
thing  for  one's  soul  to  be  poor.  He  said  our 
Lord  was  poor,  and  loved  and  blessed  the  poor ; 
and  that  it  was  as  hard  for  a  needle  to  go 
through  the  eye  of  a  camel,  as  for — as  for " 

"  You  mean  as  hard  for  a  camel  to  go  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle,"  corrected  Father  Eugene, 
smiling :  "  as  for  a  rich  man  to  go  through  the 
gate  of  heaven." 

"I  don't  care,"  pouted  Love,  shaking  her 
plump  shoulders :  "  I  like  to  be  rich,  in  spite  of 
your  'camels'  and  your  'needles'  eyes,'  what- 
ever they  are.  Please,  dear  little  mamma,  send 
the  steward  to  the  garden' to  drive  that  nasty 
man  away  I " 

"  Is  he  still  at  the  gate  ?  "  asked  Eileen  in  sur- 
prise. 

**Tea,"  answered  Willy  :  "  he  said  he  wouldn't 


222 


LOT  LKH lie's   folks. 


go  away  until  he  took  sister  and  me  with  him,  if 
he  had  to  wait  all  night  for  his  children." 

Madame  and  Father  Eugene  looked  steadily 
and  significantly  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then 
the  priest  took  up  his  barretU,  and  quitted  the 
room,  saying  as  he  went:  "Keep  your  soul  in 
peace,  my  daughter,  while  I  look  into  this  mat- 
ter." He  added  gently,  as  she  followed  him  to 
the  threshold  for  a  parting  word:  "Fenelon 
says :  '  It  is  better  to  wait  and  open  the  door 
with  a  key,  than  to  break  the  lock  through  im- 
patience.' God  bless  you,  Eileen  1— who  knows 
but  what  I  am  about  to  find  the  key  to  your 
present  difficulty  ?    Au  revoir  1 " 


cs. 


me  with  him,  if 
ihildren." 
looked  steadily 
jr's  eyes.  Then 
,  and  quitted  the 
3ep  your  soul  in 
)k  into  this  mat- 
followed  him  to 
rord :  "  Fenelon 
i  open  the  door 
lock  through  im- 
en  1— who  knows 
the  key  to  your 


n 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN  THE  DOUBLE  UOU8E  AT  PHILADELPHIA. 

Five  yeai«  have  passed  since  the  events  nar- 
rated in  our  last  chapter— five  years  of  bloody 
incident  and  startling  changes  to  the  French  set- 
tlers in  the  colonies,  and  their  Indian  allies. 

Louisburg,  Niagara  and  Fort  du  Quesne,  arc 
in  the  hands  of  the  English.  Quebec  has  fallen 
— adding  one  of  the  most  picturesque  scenes  to 
this  romantic  drama  of  war,  and  crowning  it  with 
the  tragic  deaths  of  Wolfe  and  Montcalm— ami 
Canada  has  surrendered  to  the  British  crown. 

The  Mission  of  the  Assumption  at  Detroit  has 
suffered,  in  its  turn,  from  the  devastating  ravagen 
of  war.  The  young  braves  of  the  Huron  nation, 
long  since,  deserted  their  lodges  and  their  hunt- 
ing-grounds to  foUovv  lhc?r  French  brothers  Uj 
the  battlefields  of  the  north  and  east. 

Returning  no  more,  they  have  left  their  places 
at  the  camp-fires  to  he  filled  by  the  old  men  of 
the  tribe,  by  the  squaws  and  little  children. 

The  Mission-forge  forsaken :  agriculture,  hunt- 
ing and  trading  abandoned— the  revenues  of  the 
Mission  storehouse  and  the  Mission-farm  began 

233 


m 


m 


224 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


to  dwindle,  scarcely  sufficing  to  furnish  cat's  meat 
to  Brother  Fine-Ear,  whose  noble  proportions  had 
shrunken,  and  glossy  coat  roughened  with  the 
hard  times. 

They  no  longer  afforded  a  decent  salary  to  our 
old  friend,  Timothy  Grindstone.  He  had  grown 
sick  of  war,  and  of  rumors  of  war,  and,  at  last, 
was  anxious  to  settle  himself  in  life. 

One  pure,  sweet  hope  had  been  steadily  ripen- 
ing in  his  heart  for  a  couple  of  years.  His  dream, 
by  day  and  night,  was  of  a  happy,  peaceful  home 
in  the  distant  City  of  Brotherly  Love,  where  he 
might  gather  around  him  the  friends  he  held 
most  dear,  and  rest  content  under  the  shadow  of 
his  own  vine  and  fig-tree,  far  removed  from  the 
din  of  bloody  battle. 

He  delayed  no  longer  to  become  a  member  of 
the  holy  Catholic  Church,  to  which  he  had  in- 
clined since  the  day  he  heard  his  first  Mass  in  the 
Mission  church  of  the  Assumption. 

There,  Father  Peter  instructed  and  baptized 
him ;  and,  the  year  before  Major  Rogers  and  his 
gallant  Hangers  sailed  into  the  mouth  of  the  De- 
troit to  demand  the  surrender  of  the  Fort,  and 
while  Pontiac,  chief  of  the  Ottawas,  was  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  both  French  and  English, 
— Timothy  said  farewell  to  Bois  Blanc,  and  jour- 
neyed down  alone  to  the  city  of  Penn. 

A  happy  accident,  here,  won  him  the  favor  of 


irnish  oat's  meat 
proportions  had 
hened  with  the 

jnt  salary  to  our 
He  had  grown 
v&T,  and,  at  last, 
ife. 

n  steadily  ripen- 
iTB.  His  dream, 
1^,  peaceful  home 
Love,  where  he 
friends  he  held 
r  the  shadow  of 
imoved  from  the 

me  a  member  of 
hich  he  had  in- 
first  Mass  in  the 
•n. 

ed  and  baptized 
>  Rogers  and  his 
Qouth  of  the  De- 
af the  Fort,  and 
¥as,  was  playing 
ch  and  English, 
Blanc,  and  jour- 
Penn. 
bim  the  favor  of 


IN  THE  DOUBLE  H0U8E. 


225 


an  eccentric  old  Quaker  lady — Mistress  Dorothy 
Pemberton,  a  rich  widow  without  chick  or  child. 

She  engaged  him  first  as  her  coachman,  and 
hiter  on,  as  a  sort  of  steward,  or  general-utility- 
man,  on  her  handsome  farm  on  Walnut  street, 
not  far  from  the  banks  of  the  Delaware  river — 
then,  a  rural  quarter  of  Philadelphia,  filled  with 
the  homesteads  of  the  wealthy  Friends. 

To  the  south,  lay  the  Bettering  House  (or  re- 
treat for  poor  Friends)  and  the  old  Quaker  Alms- 
house (since  made  famous  by  Longfellow) — which 
then  stood,  as  he  says : 

"  — in  the  suburbs,  in  the  midst  of  meadows  and  woodlands." 

Between  these  two  buildings,  was  what  Tim- 
othy's mistress  called  "  the  Popish  Mass-house," 
where  the  honest  fellow  soon  found  strength  and 
comfort  for  his  soul. 

Father  Robert  Harding  was  the  pastor  at  that 
date,  (assisted  by  the  German  missionary.  Father 
Steinmeier  or  Farmer);  and  his  chapel  of  St. 
Joseph,  newly-built,  was  then  only  five  years  old. 

It  was  an  oblong  structure,  sixty  by  forty  feet, 
rough-cast  and  i^ebble-dashed,  with  an  arched 
ceiling,  and  no  galleries,  save  a  small  organ  loft. 
There  were  only  about  eight  windows  in  all — 
but  they  shed  light  enough  to  reveal  the  lieauties 
of  two  fine  pictures  in  oil,  that  hung  upon  the 
homely  walls — those  of   St.  Ignatius   and  St. 


f 


LOT  LESLIE'8   folks. 

Francis  of  Assissi,  which  hid  been  sent  from 
Europe  to  the  first  pastor  of  iSt.  Joseph's. 

Timothy  liked  best,  however,  the  splendid 
painting  ot  the  Holy  Family,  that  hung  over  the 
one  little  altar  of  the  chapel— the  work  of  the 
Philadelphia  artist,  Benjamin  West,  although 
executed  in  Rome. 

Humble  as  was  this  little  house  of  God,  Tim- 
othy often  knelt  there  at  the  Communion-rail, 
side  by  side  with  the  grand  foreign  ambassadors, 
whose  statel"  mansions  were  located  south  and 
west  of  the  church,  and  who,  with  their  large 
retinues  of  attaches  and  servants  worshipped  reg- 
ularly at  St.  Joseph's. 

There,  he  saw  the  son  of  Lionell  Brittin,  the 
first  (known)  Philadelphia  convert  to  Catholicity, 
and  his  father's  freed  slaves,  Quan  and  Dinah} 
And  there,  too,  he  met  numbers  of  the  poor  Aca- 
dians  who,  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Benezet, 
were  then  living  in  their  small,  wooden,  one-story 
huts  on  the  north  side  of  Pine  street,  between 
Fifth  and  Sixth  streets.  A  timid,  forlorn  lot, 
they  were. 

In  his  free  time,  and  of  evenings,  Timothy 

went  for  a  little  schooling  to  Magnus  Falconer, 

the  schoolmaster,  who  kept  at  Randal  Yetton's, 

a  goldsmith,  opposite  Gray's  Alley,  Front  street. 

Fourth  street  was  then  the  westernmost  boun- 

I  See  Griffin's  Am.  Cath.  His.  Researches,  April,  1899. 


iUtei 


J 


;* 


p. 

een  sent  from 
[)sepb's. 

the  splendid 
,  hung  over  the 
le  work  of  the 
V^est,  although 

e  of  God,  Tim- 
ommunion-rail, 
n  ambassadors, 
Eited  south  and 
ith  their  large 
ivorshipped  reg- 

lell  Brittin,  the 
;  to  Catholicity, 
an  and  Dinah} 
)f  the  poor  Aca- 
of  Mr.  Benezet, 
x>den,  one-story 
street,  between 
lid,  forlorn  lot, 

nings,  Timothy 
agnus  Falconer, 
iandal  Yetton's, 
sy.  Front  street, 
stemmost  bonn- 

lei,  April,  1899. 


IX  TIIK  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


227 


dary  of  Philadelphia.  It  was,  what  its  founder, 
Penn,  had  desired  it  to  be— "a  green  country 
town  " ;  and  Father  Greaton,  the  first  pastor  of 
St.  Joseph's,  has  recorded  that  he  saw  there,  on 
all  sides,  "gardens  paled,  and  orchards  here  and 
there."'  The  roads  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Third  ai  i  Walnut  streets,  (now  so  well-grade<l 
and  closely -built),  were  then  only  "narrow  car^ 
ways  ascending  deep  defiles,  ard  causing  foot- 
passengers  to  walk  high  above  them,  on  the  sides 
of  the  shelving  banks." ' 

After  Mass  or  Vespers  on  Sundays,  Timothy 
often  strolled,  under  the  spreading  walnut  and 
buttonwood  trees,  to  the  great  Pond,  then  to  be 
seen  at  Fourth  and  Market  streets,  the  "  proper 
head  of  Dock  creek,"  (now  Dock  street),  where 
the  ducks  sailed  peacefully  to  and  fro,  viewing 
their  charms  in  their  clear,  watery  mirror.  He 
longed  for  Willy  at  such  times.  He  even  caught 
a  fish,  now  and  again,  of  a  holiday,  in  the  spring 
back  of  Fourth  street,  to  the  northwest,  when 
the  silvery-backed  creatures  came  up  the  creek  at 
high  tide. 

He  was  contented  in  his  quiet  home  at  Doro- 
thy Pemberton's.  The  old  Quakeress  soon  found 
her  prejudices  against  "  Papists"  giving  way  be- 
fore the  sound  sense  and  good  example  of  her 
favorite  serving-man.    Timothy  was  a  keen-wit- 

«  See  Griffin's  Am.  Cath.  His.  Researches,  April,  1899.    »  JiuL 


ir'"W 


228 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


ted  Yankee,  well-instructed  in  his  religion,  and 
wonderfully  posted  on  a  number  of  knotty  points, 
by  his  years  of  close  contact  with  educated  and 
intelligent  Catholics. 

He  was  able  to  answer  the  old  lady's  questions 
as  to  his  faith,  with  clearness  and  excellent  logic ; 
and  she  found  him  so  bravo  and  truthful,  so  hon- 
est, and  conscientiously  devoted  to  her  interests 
in  the  smallest  details,  that  she  ended  by  con- 
ceiving a  high  esteem  for  her  man  and  his  religion. 

Meantime,  poor  Timothy  was  beginning  to  have 
many  a  lonely  hour,  many  a  yearning  thought  of 
his  old  frionds,  the  Leslies. 

It  was  a  time  when,  owing  to  several  grave 
causes,  it  was  almost  impossible  for  people  to 
communicate  with  their  dear  ones  at  a  distance. 
Letters  were  hard  to  write — at  least,  for  such  as 
Timothy  and  his  beloved  Swan  Islanders — and, 
in  that  troublous  period,  still  harder  to  send,  or 
have  delivered  at  their  destination. 

Willy  had  written  once  from  Montreal,  tell- 
ing of  his  meeting  with  his  father  at  Madame 
St.  Ange's  garden-gate.  And  Timothy  was  con- 
tented, for  the  time,  to  know  that  his  dear  boy 
was  well  and  happy ;  and  that  Lot  had  gone 
back  to  service  with  Jean  Martin,  the  baker. 

As  to  Prudence  and  the  girls,  he  had  left  them, 
to  all  appearances,  safely  settled  with  Mary  and 
Catharine  Tarbuki ;  and  he  knew  nothing,  as  yet, 


•i. 

a  religion,  and 
■  knotty  points, 
1  educated  and 

ady's  questions 
excellent  logic ; 
ruthful,  so  hon- 
tc  her  interests 
ended  by  con- 
md  his  religion, 
^nning  to  have 
ling  thought  of 

>  several  grave 
for  people  to 
!S  at  a  distance, 
iust,  for  such  as 
Islanders — and, 
rder  to  send,  or 
1. 

Montreal,  tell- 
ler  at  Madame 
nothy  was  con- 
it  his  dear  boy 
Lot  had  gone 
,  the  baker. 
B  Lad  left  thein, 
with  Mary  and 
nothing,  as  yet, 


IN  THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


220 


KM 


iKMi 


of  the  sad  mishap  that  had  befallen  them,  a  month 
after  his  departure. 

A  chance  spark  in  the  night,  kindled  by  the 
blind  grandmother  to  light  her  pipe,  had  set  fire 
to  the  old  squaw's  clothing. 

Before  day -dawn,  the  lodge  was  burned  1»  the 
ground  (with  many  of  the  adjoining  huts),  and 
poor  old  Anne  Why-washi-hrooch,  in  spite  of  the 
heroic  efforts  of  her  daughter  and  grandchild, 
perished  in  the  flames. 

In  their  homeless  affliction,  Mary  and  Cathar- 
ine hurried  with  their  three  white  slaves  to  their 
best  friend  and  sole  earthly  adviser— Father 
Peter,  at  Assumption  Mission. 

He  received  them  with  the  sympathy  and  lov- 
ing interest  of  a  true  father. 

While  Mary  and  Catharine  stood  before  him 
in  their  dark,  gentle  beauty,  and  told  their  sad 
story  in  simple  words,  without  excitement  or 
emphasis,  the  good  priest  sat  at  his  desk,  and 
carefully  studied  the  situation. 

Just  at  that  time,  there  were  weighing  on  his 
mind  other  matters  of  still  graver,  and  more 
terrible  import. 

The  evening  pre'ious,  he  had  entertained  at 
supper,  one  who  was  known  as  "  the  Irish  Mo- 
hawk chief,"  the  famous  Sir  William  Johnson. 

Colonel  Duquesne  and  Major  La  Motte  had 
been  present,  as  well  as  Pierre  Meloohe,  the 


'f^ff! 


1^ 


!!* 


II 


230 


L(»T   LKSLIKS    FOLKS. 


miller,  Charles  Parant,  his  relative,  Belleperche, 
Beaufait,  and  de  Bondie.  But  Meloche  had  lin- 
gered after  all  the  other  guests,  for  a  secret  word 
with  Father  Peter. 

The  Jesuit's  dark  cheek  had  paled — his  calm 
eyes  had  dilated,  as  the  miller  whispered  in  his 
ear: 

"Tell  Major  Gladwin  to  beware  of  Pontiac 
and  his  men  I " 

And  when  the  priest  had  questioned  further, 
jVieloche  admitted : 

"  The  Ottawas  are  planning  an  immediate  at- 
tack on  the  fort.  If  successful,  it  will  prove  a 
bloody  massacre  I " 

How  to  communicate  this  well-accredited  warn- 
ing to  the  commandant,  without  betraying  its 
source — had  been  the  subject  of  Father  Peter's 
anxious  thoughts  for  many  sleepless  hours,  when 
Omi-.  le  and  her  homeless  ones  came,  at  the 
dawn,  to  consult  him. 

But,  with  the  characteristic  self-control  of  the 
missionary,  he  immediately  bent  all  the  powers 
of  his  wise  and  keen  mind  to  the  adjustment  of 
their  future. 

A  bright  thought  flashed  upon  him. 

On  his  desk,  that  moment,  lay  a  letter,  just 
fetched  him  by  a  Huron  runner  from  Montreal. 

It  was  from  the  Superioress  of  a  convent,  well- 
]{nown  to  him  there.    In  it,  she  besought  him  to 


s. 

ve,  Belleperche, 
leloche  hud  lin- 
or  a  secret  word 

mled — Ills  calm 
irhispered  in  his 

are  of  Pontiac 

stioned  further, 

n  immediate  at- 
it  will  prove  a 

iccredited  warn- 
it  betraying  its 
Father  Peter's 
ess  hours,  when 
IS  came,  at  the 

f-control  of  the 

all  the  powers 

e  adjustment  of 

him. 

ly  a  letter,  just 
'rom  Montreal, 
a  convent,  well- 
)esought  him  to 


IN  THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


231 


send  her,  if  possible,  some  good,  pious  women, 
either  white  or  Indian,  whom  ho  might  deem 
suitable  to  serve  as  lay  Sisters  in  her  house. 

He  had  long  recognized  and  admired  the  heroic 
virtues  of  Mary  and  Catluirine  Tarbuki.  He  was 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  heavenly  secrets 
of  their  holy,  interior  life.  They  had  often  ex- 
pressed to  him  their  burning  desire  to  become 
nuns — to  consecrate  themselves  entirely  to  God, 
in  the  humblest  convent-homo  tb  .t  would  be 
willing  to  receive  them. 

God  Himself,  by  this  unexpected  severing  of 
all  their  earthly  ties,  seemed  now  to  open  the 
way  for  them  to  their  long-desired  end. 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  their  dark  faces  glow, 
and  their  soft  eyes  sparkle,  as  Father  Peter  told 
them  of  the  blessed  refuge,  heaven  had  prepared 
for  them  in  this  gloomy  hour  of  their  bitterest 
desolation. 

"  We  will  go  at  once  to  the  house  of  the  Lord, 
if  our  Father  will  permit  uj,"  said  OmirMee,  with 
quiet  decision. 

"  And  I,  forsooth,  will  go  with  you,"  said  Pru- 
dence, abruptly.  " '  It's  better  to  be  an  abject  in 
the  house  of  the  Lord,  than  dwell  in  the  taber- 
nacles of  sinners.'  I'm  sorry  stuif  for  the  making 
of  a  nun,  you  may  be  thinking.  Father  Peter, 
but  mayhap,  God  will  give  me  the  grace  to  end 
my  life  in  peace  among  these  holy  women." 


M 


232 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


"  O,  Patience ! "  cried  little  Hoiie,  fretfully : 
"you'll  not  go  away,  and  leave  nie  behind?  I'll 
be  frightened  to  death  without  you,"  and  she 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Helen  might  go  with  you,"  said  Father  Peter, 
calling  Hope  by  lier  baptismal  name.  "Don't 
cry,  child ;  the  nuns,  I  am  sure,  will  receive  you 
into  their  school.  It  will  be  a  good  opportunity 
to  secure  your  education.  But,  Agnes — "  he 
added,  looM.ing  kindly  at  Faith  Leslie,  who  had 
grown  into  a  neat,  well-made  girl  of  eighteen, 
Avith  a  quiet,  modest  face :  "  I  think  Agnes  had 
better  not  go  at  present  to  Montreal." 

Faith  blushed,  and  lowered  her  pleasant  eyes. 

"  I  met  Madame  Belleperche,  this  morning,  as 
we  were  coming  here,"  she  faltered.  "She  was 
very  kind.    She  says  she  needs  a  maid.    If  you 

think  I  would  suit  her,  Father ?"  and  again 

she  hesitated. 

The  priest  brought  his  long,  slender  hands  to- 
gether with  a  resounding  clap. 

"Very  good ! "  he  exclaimed  with  a  funny  em- 
phasis :  "  very  well !  Just  the  thing !  Madame, 
votre  marrainej  will  make  a  kind,  patient  mis- 
tress, and  Agnes,  an  excellent  maid.  Ohl  we 
shall  all  take  care  of  Agnes,  you  may  be  sure,  all 
take  the  very  best  care  of  our  little  Agnes !  As 
for  the  rest  of  you"  (turning  to  the  others): 
"  Madame,  the  Superior  has  sent  me  a  draft  for 


8. 

LOjie,  fretfully: 

k«  behind?    Til 

you,"  and  she 

d  Father  Peter, 
name.  "  Don't 
kvill  receive  you 
mkI  opportunity 
Agnes — "  he 
!^slie,  who  had 
irl  of  eighteen, 
link  Agnes  had 
•eal." 

ir  pleasant  eyes, 
^his  morning,  as 
red.  "She  was 
I  maid.  If  you 
—  ?"  and  again 

lender  hands  to- 

ith  a  fanny  em- 
ling !  Madame, 
nd,  patient  mis- 
maid.  Oh!  we 
may  be  sure,  all 
itle  Agnes !  As 
to  the  others): 
t  me  a  draft  for 


IN  THE  DorBLE   HOUSE. 


233 


your  journey.  The  Indian  runner  waits  to  guide 
you  on  your  way." 

The  women  and  girls  fell  upon  their  knees,  as 
he  raised  his  hand  in  benediction,  but  he  was 
fatherly  and  practical  to  the  last. 

"Off  to  the  kitchen,  now,"  he  cried,  as  he 
finished  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  turned  back 
with  a  sigh  to  his  other  weighty  and  unsolved 
difficulties. 

"  Get  you  all  a  good  dinner  from  Brother  Ig- 
natius. Then,  away  with  you,  this  very  after- 
noon, to  Montreal.  I'll  make  you  ready  a  letter 
for  the  Reverend  Mother.  Pray  for  me,  and  be- 
gin to  be  saints ! " 

Two  or  three  months  later.  Lot  Leslie  was  in 
the  baker-shop  of  Jean  Martin,  waiting  upon  a 
customer,  when  a  ragged  boy  brought  him  a 
three-corned  note. 

It  was  a  queer  specimen  of  writing  and  spell- 
ing ;  but  when  Lot,  after  long  and  severe  study, 
had  made  it  out,  it  gave  him  a  wonderful  shock 
to  read  words  that  meant  to  say : 

"  There  are  four  of  us,  here,  at  the  convent  in 
Notre  Dame  street,  Mary  and  Catharine  Tar- 
bucket,  your  daughter  Hope  and  myself.  '  /ow 
toated  up  and  down  like  the  locust.  My  knees  are 
toeak  through  fasting,  and  myfieshfaUeth  affair 


^■^ 


^t^^gg^ 


I^^BBiAH 


*ii 


ffl' 


if. 


984 


LOT  LKSLIE  S   FOLKS. 


nesd.''    Come,  see  ine,  and  you'll  hear  all  the 
news  from  your  old  friend, 

"Prudence  Martha  Skillet." 

At  his  dinner-hour,  Lot  made  huste  to  find  the 
convent  in  Notre  Dunie  street.  It  was  a  large, 
grey,  prison-like  building.  He  trembled  consid- 
erably when  he  was  shown  by  the  portress  into 
the  little  bare  parlor  with  its  whitewashed 
walls,  its  plaster  Madonna,  and  great,  solemn 
crucifix. 

After  a  long  wait— and  the  far-oflF  ringing  of  a 
great  bell  that  struck  terror  to  his  soul — the  door 
opened,  and  Prudence  Martha  Skillet  came  in. 

Lot  scarcely  knew  her. 

Always  tliin' and  raw-boned,  her  flesh  had  in* 
deed,  (as  her  note  had  said),  failed  of  its  fatness. 
But  I.«slie  had  never  seen  her  look  as  nicely,  or 
act  as  genteelly. 

She  had  a  good,  wholesome  face.  Her  plain, 
black  dress  was  neat  and  close  fitting,  with  its 
black  cape  and  snowy  collar.  She  wore  a  white 
linen  apron  that  fairly  shone  from  the  iron ;  and 
her  hair  was  done  up  smoothly  under  a  very  be- 
coming cap  of  black  net. 

Her  joy  at  meeting  Ix>t  wa»  so  "xtnime,  so  un- 
affected, that  the  poor  fellow  was  quite  overcome 
by  it. 

He  began  to  regard  her  in  a  new  light,  as  she 


,KS. 

u*ll  hear  all  the 

riiA  Skillet." 

husto  to  find  the 

It  was  a  large, 

trembled  consid- 

the  portress  into 

its   whitewashed 

td  great,  coleinn 

ir-oiT  ringing  of  a 
lis  soul — the  door 
>l{iilet  came  in. 

her  flesh  had  in- 
led  of  its  fatness, 
look  as  nicely,  or 

face.  Her  plain, 
e  fitting,  with  its 
She  wore  a  white 
om  the  iron ;  and 
under  a  very  be- 

lo  "xtrume,  so  Un- 
as quite  overcome 

new^  light,  as  she 


IN  THE   DOUHLK   IKM'SE. 


235 


sat  before  him,  lookin*;  quite  the  lady  in  the 
high-bred  simplicity  of  her  convent-clothes ;  and 
he  listened  eagerly  to  all  the  news  of  his  dear 
ones  that  she  poured  forth,  with  a  torrent  of 
Scripture  that  seemed  the  sole  remnant  of  her 
old  personality. 

Mary  and  Catharine,  (she  told  him),  were 
happy  as  the  day  was  long  in  their  new  life,  and 
would  soon  get  the  habit.  Even  IIoimj  was  very 
well  content,  and  making  good  use  of  her  time 
in  the  nuns'  school. 

As  for  herself— (here  Prudence  drew  a  wry 
face,  and  maile  a  queer  gesture  of  desimir  with 
her  bony  hands),  she  feared  she  was  never  cut 
out  for  a  Uy  Sister,  or  any  other  sort  of  a  Sister. 
She  had  become,  according  to  her  own  account, 
" like  a  palican  of  the  wilderness,"  like  "a  night 
raven  in  the  house,"  like  "a  solitary  sparrow  on 
the  house-top."  _         ^  ^^ 

«♦  *  I  am  afflicted  and  humbled  exceedingly, 
she  went  on  to  say,  with  king  David :   « '  I  have 
turned  in  my  anguish  while  the  thorn  is  fastened 
— '"  and  then  to  Lot's  surprise  and  dismay,  she 
burst  into  a  mighty  flood  of  tears. 

He  made  some  awkward  efforts  to  console  her; 

but  his  concern  and  embarrassment  were-  still 

further  increased,  when  she  sprang  to  her  feet, 

and  extended  her  hands  to  him,  sobbing  wildly : 

«  Take  me  out  of  this.  Lot  Uslie,  take  me  out 


I    < 


,,  ^.i!) 


Ml 

mi 


236 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


of  this,  I  beg  of  you !  Tm  not  fit  for  it,  any 
more  than  I'm  tit  to  he  tiie  queen  of  England 
herseif ! " 

"  Tliere's  only  one  way  to  take  you  out — tliat  I 
can  tliinlc  of — "  stammered  Leslie,  scratching  his 
head,  wherein  bad  dawned  a  sudden  inspiration : 
''  Jean  Martin  (that's  the  baker),  he's  bin  a-nag- 
gin'  at  me  to  marry  agin.  They  want  a  woman 
to  help  in  the  kitchen,  as  my  poor  missus  used 
to.  A  couple's  better  nor  single  help.  They've 
a  nice  lot  of  rooms  over  the  stable  and — and — 
hang  it  all  I " — he  blurted,  in  conclusion,  wiping 
the  perspiration  from  his  face  with  his  coat 
sleeve:  "I  never  was  a  man  of  many  words. 
To  make  a  short  story  of  it — Prudy,  will  you  I.o 
my  wife  ?  " 

Miss  Skillet  turned  scarlet,  clean  up  to  the 
crimped  border  of  her  convent-cap.  She  glared 
abont  her  with  a  startled  look,  as  if  the  very 
walls  must  blush  at  the  profanation  of  a  mar- 
riage-proposal within  their  virgin-bounds. 

Then,  her  eyes  fell  before  Lot's,  regarding  her 
with  open  admiration,  yet  humble  diffidence — a 
pleading  glance,  that  made  her  feel  very  queer, 
and  (strange  to  say),  exceedingly  happy. 

"  This  is  very  sudden,"  she  said  at  last,  timidly, 
bashfully — in  short,  quite  unlike  her  ordinary 
bustling,  energetic  fashion :  **  you  do  me  a  great 
honor ;  but,  if  you  think  I'll  suit ?  " 


iwte 


IN  THE   DOUBLE   HOUSE. 


287 


fit  for  it,  any 
)en  of  England 

'o\x  out — that  I 
,  scratching  his 
en  inspiration : 
he's  bin  a-nag- 
want  a  woman 
x>r  missus  used 
help.  They've 
Ae  and — and — 
elusion,  wiping 
with  his  coat 
f  many  words, 
dy,  will  you  1  o 

lean  up  to  the 
ip.  She  glared 
as  if  the  very 
ition  of  a  mar- 
bounds. 

,  regarding  her 
le  diflSdence — a 
feel  very  queer, 
happy. 

at  last,  timidly, 
B  her  ordinary 
I  do  me  a  great 
?" 


"  ♦  Suit '  ?  "  echoed  Lot  in  an  ecstasy :  "  *  suit '  ? 
Well,  I  swan !  Talk  al)out  yer  '  pelicans '  and 
yer  'night-hawks'  and  yer  'solitary  sparrurs  on 
the  house-top' — I  declare  to  gracious,  I  never 
know'd  till  this  minnit  what  a  niizzablo,  lone- 
some, fersaken  creetur  J've  bin,  ever  sense  my 
|)oor  missus  turn'd  round  and  died !  Come  along, 
Prudy,  my  old  gal !  Now  or  never,  we'll  make  a 
match  of  it,  or  my  name  ain't  Lot  Leslie ! " 

"Hold  a  little,  master,"  said  Prudence,  still 
blushing,  and  twisting  her  apron-string  around 
her  finger,  like  bashful  sixteen :  "  you  see,  I'm  a 
Roman  Cath'lic  now.  And  you  ain^t.  Might 
as  well  be  said,  first  as  last,— I  can't  marry  you, 
at  all,  unless  the  priest  ties  the  knot." 

"Sure  and  sartin,  the  priest  shall  tie  the 
knot,"  cried  Leslie,  cordially :  "  I  don't  mind  tellin' 
you,  I'm  half  a  Papist  myself,  already.  I  give 
you  leave  to  make  a  hull  one  outen  me,  sweet- 
heart, if  you'll  only  marry  me,  this  blessed  day ! " 

Thereupon,  Miss  Skillet  slipped  away  to  hunt 
up  Hope,  her  future  steptlaughter,  and  to  tell 
her  surprising  bit  of  news  to  the  Reverend 
Mother  Superior. 

That  wise  nun  smiled  benignly  on  the  bride- 
elect,  (having  been  thoroughly  convinced  from 
the  start  of  her  unfitness  for  the  cloister) ;  but 
reminded  her  of  the  marriage  banrs  that  must  be 
pat  up,  and  of  other  little  preliminaries  that 


gfl'1^' 


238 


LOT  Leslie's  FOLKf.. 


must  be  attended  to,  before  she  and  Lot  could  be 
made  one  flesh. 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was,  that  a  week  later, 
with  Jean  Martin  and  his  wife,  in  their  best,  for 
witnesses,  and  Hope  as  maid  of  honor,  the  happy 
couple  went  to  the  revtorerie  of  the  Catholic 
church  where  little  Love  had  been  baptized. 
There,  the  same  priest  who  had  christened  the 
child,  and  afterward,  given  the  last  Sacraments 
to  Mistress  Lot  Leslie,  (number  one),  administered 
the  nuptial  rite  to  Mistress  Lot  Leslie  (number 
two)  and  her  delighted  spouse. 

Then,  Hope  went  back  to  her  school,  rejoicing 
in  a  pretty  dress  and  a  box  of  sweetmeats ;  while 
Lot,  and  his  sturdy  "  missus,"  trudged  oflf  to  begin 
a  new  life  together  in  Jean  Martin's  comfortable 
annex,  as  happy  as  two  sparrows  nest-keeping  in 
a  summer  grove. 

One  of  Leslie's  first  acts,  after  that,  was  to 
write  Timothy  Grindstone  a  full  account  of  th  j 
wedding,  which  he  sent  south  by  a  trusty  mes- 
senger. 

The  war  was  raging  at  the  time,  however,  and 
Tim's  answer  was  long  in  coming. 

A  wonderful  letter  it  was,  when  it  did  come, 

Timothy  was  a  rich  man. 

Dorothy  Pemberton  had  grown,  day  by  day, 
more  and  more  attached  to  her  steward,  treating 
him,  lie  last,  less  like  a  servitor  than  a  son.    He 


itMmm 


and  Lot  could  be 

lat  a  week  later, 
,  in  their  best,  for 
honor,  the  happy 
of  the  Catholic 
d  been  baptized, 
id  christened  the 
B  last  Sacraments 
sne),  administered 
lOt  Leslie  (number 

r  school,  rejoicing 
weetmeats ;  while 
udged  off  to  begin 
rtin's  comfortable 
;vs  nest-keeping  in 

ifter  that,  was  to 

nW  account  of  th  j 

by  a  trusty  mes- 

ime,  however,  and 

ing. 

hen  it  did  come. 

•own,  day  by  day, 
'  steward,  treating 
r  than  a  son.    He 


IN  THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


239 


had  helped  to  nurse  the  old  Quakeress,  through  a 
long  and  trying  illness.  No  one,  save  Timothy, 
could  support  her  up  and  down  the  broad  old 
staircase  of  oak.  Ko  one,  save  Timothy,  could 
carry  her  comfortably  out  into  the  wide,  sunny 
garden, — where  she  lay  for  hours,  daily,  in  her 
reclining  chair  among  the  flowers  and  bees,  and 
where  she  died  quietly,  one  day,  leaving  Timothy 
Grindstone  (God  bless  her !)  everything  she  pos- 
sessed. He  was  now  the  owner  of  a  splendid 
farm  and  homestead — of  extensive  stock  and 
lands. 

The  house  was  a  large,  double  mansion,  simply 
but  handsomely  furnished,  and  with  beautiful 
upper  and  lower  balconies.  He  had  room  in  it 
for  all  his  old  friends.  *'  Come  on,  master,  with 
your  wife  and  little  Hope,"  he  wrote  to  Lot. 
"  One  wing  of  my  double  house  is  yours.  It  has 
been  my  dream  for  years.  Life  is  too  short,  at 
best,  for  dear  friends  to  be  long  parted.  Let  us 
spend  the  rest  of  our  days  together." 

Having  dispatched  his  letter  to  Montreal  (thanks 
to  Magnus  Falconer,  it  was  easier  writing  now, 
than  in  the  days  when  he  travelled  with  poor 
Alexander,  the  trader),  Timothy  dressed  himself  in 
his  Sunday  clothes,  and  started  on  a  long-promised 
trip  to  the  Assumption  Mission.  He  had  more  to 
say  to  Father  Peter,  and  to  one  of  Father  Peter's 
parishioners,  than  he  could  have  written  in  a^ear. 


1 


!■• 


'i 


Ml 


240 


LOT  LESLIE'S   FOLKS. 


•  He  was  not  absent  from  Pennsylvania  many 
days ;  but  he  attended  to  a  great  deal  of  busiu.^ 
in  a  short  space  of  time. 

When  he  returned  to  his  lovely  homestead,  he 
lifted  out  of  his  Ught  vehicle,  a  young,  blushing 
lady  in  white,  whom  he  introduced  to  Pringle, 
his  overseer,  as  Mistress  Timothy  Grindstone  ! 

And  Pringle  thought  it  a  very  pretty  sight  to 
see  his  master  escorting  his  bride,  at  once,  over 
the  farm,  showing  her  not  only  the  flower  beds 
and  the  beehives  in  the  garden,  but  taking  her 
to  see  even  the  cows  and  horses,  the  pigs  and  the 
poultry,  the  stables,  and  the  dairy. 

And  when,  after  a  while,  they  strolled  under 
the  great  walnut  trees,  into  the  fine  old  house, 
and  roamed,  hand  in  hand,  through  Dorothy 
Pemberton's  many  beautiful  rooms,  chattmg, 
laughing,  and  planning,  like  a  couple  of  spring 
birds,  nest-building,  Timothy  was  heard  exclaim- 
ing in  loud,  cheery  tones : 

«God  bless  thee.  Faith,  my  love!  'Twas  a 
lucky  day,  after  all— wasn't  it?— when  the 
savages  drove  us  out  from  the  old  home  on  Swan 

Island  I"  , 

As  the  pleasant  summer  days  drew  on,  they 

began  to  watch  daily  for  the  coming  of  the 

travellers  from  Montreal. 
At  last,  one  lovely  June  day  when  Faith  sat 

knitting  on  the  broad  old  balcony,  looking  al- 


WBtiPIIBiiiM 


ylvania  many 
eal  of  busiu;^ 

homestead,  he 
>ung,  blushing 
5d  to  Pringle, 
Grindtttone  ! 
jretty  sight  to 
at  once,  over 
he  flower  beds 
but  taking  her 
le  pigs  and  the 

strolled  under 
fine  old  house, 
■ough  Dorothy 
>oms,  chatting, 
)uple  of  spring 

heard  exclaim- 

lovel  *Twa8  a 
it?— when  the 
I  home  on  Swan 

1  drew  on,  they 
coming  of  the 

when  Faith  sat 
my,  looking  al- 


IN  THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


241 


most  pretty  in  her  wedding-dress  of  white  muslin 
and  blue  ribbons,  (given  her  by  her  Marraine  Belle- 
perche),— whUe  Timothy,  in  yellow  nankeen  and 
brass  buttons,  fussed  about,  close  at  han«l,  among 
the  vines  and  flower  beds,  the  Grindstone  team 
turned  a  corner  of  the  road,  covered  with  foam, 
and  Pringle,  merrily  cracking  his  whip,  brought 
the  family  coach  to  the  door,  loaded  with  pas- 
sengers. 

First  of  all,  tumbled  out  Master  and  Mistress 
Lot  and,  (wonderful  to  relate!)  their  baby, 
Timothy;  next,  Hope,  looking  quit.,  the  grown- 
up maiden  in  her  first  long  gown ;  and  then— and 
then— to  the  great  surprise  and  delight  of  Tim  and 
his  wife,  a  dazzlingly  beautiful  girl  and  a  tall,  hand- 
some boy,  who  were  introduced  by  Lot,  with  a 
loud  flourish  of  trumpets,  as:  "My  daughter, 
I^ve   Marianne,  and  my  son,  Wilson  Joseph 

Leslie!" 

There  was  so  much  noise  and  confusion  at  the 
outset,— so  much  to  tell,  and  so  much  to  hear, 
that  it  was  a  long  while  before  Tim  and  Faith 
could  make  out  the  cause  of  the  unexpected  com- 
ing of  Willy  and  I^ve. 

Truth  to  say,  the  children  looked  oiit  of  place 
among  their  homely  relatives,  and  amid  such 
simple  surroundings.  And,  while  he  was  ponder- 
ing this,  Timothy  learned,  for  the  first  time,  of 
St.  Ange's  second  will,  and  of  the  change  it  bad 


I 


24i  LOT  Leslie's  folks. 

wrought  in  the  lives  of  Madame  and  her  adopted 
children. 

The  five  closing  years  of  his  minority  having 
elapsed,  young  Louis  St.  Ange  had  just  arrived 
from  France  to  claim  the  estate  of  his  deceased 

uncle. 

Whilst  matters  had  remained  in  her  own  con- 
trol, Madame  had  dealt  nobly  by  Willy  and  Love. 
She  had  managed  to  deposit  at  her  banker's,  a 
substantial  sum  to  their  credit ;  and  then,  feeling 
a  call  to  a  higher  life,  and  realizing  that  it  was  a 
cruel  thing  to  keep  the  children  longer  from  their 
ow>,  (with  whom  there  was  new  no  risk  of  perver- 
sion, or  damage  to  the  little  ones'  souls)— she  had 
retired  to  the  convent  where  Mary  and  Catharine 
Tarbuki  had  just  made  their  solemn  vows  of  pro- 
fession :  and  proposed  to  spend  there  the  residue 
of  her  days. 

Love  had  been  very  averse  to  this  arrange- 
ment. Being  a  spoiled  and  worldly-minded  li««,le 
damsel,  she  had  been  very  unwilling  to  return  to 
her  father,  and  renounce  the  elegant  life  of  the 
St.  Ange  mansion. 

This  fact  convinced  Eileen  that  the  little  girl 
angularly  needed  the  discipline  before  her.  At 
parting,  Madame  spoke  to  her  so  wisely  and  ten- 
derly, and  showed  her  so  clearly,  that  the  high- 
est aristocracy  is  that  of  the  faithful  children  of 
God— that  the  best  riches  are  those  of  a  meek, 


1 1 


■^m: 


U^|Jp_yWllHiJ^, 


IN   THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


243 


d  her  adopted 

aority  having 

[  just  arrived 

his  deceased 

her  own  con- 
illy  and  Love, 
er  banker*B,  a 
1  then,  feeling 

that  it  was  a 
^er  from  their 
risk  of  perver- 
)uls) — she  had 
and  Catharine 
n  vows  of  pro- 
)re  the  residue 

this  arrange- 
y-minded  liable 
ig  to  return  to 
ant  life  of  the 

t  the  little  girl 
efore  her.  At 
wisely  and  ten- 
that  the  high- 
ful  children  of 
ose  of  a  meek, 


humble,  unselfish  heart;  and  that  no  beauty  of 
face  or  form  is  at;  lovely  or  as  lastmg  as  that 
which  springs  from  a  pure  and  pious  soul-that 
Love  promised  her,  with  tears,  to  accept  as  pa- 
tiently as  she  could,  her  new  Itfe  m  a  lowlier 
sphere,  and  to  strive  with  aU  her  powers  to 
please  God,  and  do  His  holy  Will,  among  her 
commonplace  relations. 
Faithfully,  did  she  keep  her  childish  promise. 
Though  many  a  time,  she  failed  through  weak- 
ness;  though,  again  and  again,  her  spint  grew 
sore  and  chafed  under  her  tedious  task,  and  amid 
uncongenial  surroundings-with  the  help  of  God 
and  o^  Lady,  and  the  blessing  of  St.  Arthony  (to 
whom  she  had  been  consecrated  in  the  Mission- 
scales  at  Lorette),  she  struggled  bravely  on- 
ripening,  at  hwt,  into  one  of  those  rare  creatures 
who  quite  forget  themselves  for  others— into  a 
noble,  useful  woman,  whose  soul  was  as  beauti- 
ful as  her  face.  -  .      i.      « 
When  she  had  become  the  joy  of  her  house- 
hold, and  the  support  and  comfort  of  aU  within 
the  circle  of  her  influence,  young  Louis  St.  Ange 
came  to  her  from  Montreal  with  a  message  from 

his  aunt.  .  ,   ,       .       .. 

Madame  had  corresponded  with  her  favonto 
through  her  years  of  trial,  and  helped  her  m  her 
struggle  against  self. 

She  had  shown  Louis,  (in  his  visits  to  the  con- 


t  \ 


244 


LOT  Leslie's  folks. 


■  vent),  all  those  beautiful,  humble  letters  from 
Love,  which  reflected,  like  clear  mirrors,  the 
pura,  generous  soul  of  the  girl.  And  now,  when 
that  excellent  young  man  had  grown  to  appreci- 
ate and  love  her  adopted  daughter,  Eileen  sent 
him  to  her  to  ask  her  to  be  his  bride. 

His  wooing,  under  such  happy  auspices,  was  a 
short  and  successful  one.  All  agreed  that  so  hand- 
some and  amiable  a  pair  of  Christian  lovers 
seemed  made  for  one  another ;  and  soon,  there 
was  a  charming  wedding  in  the  old  double  house 
in  Philadelphia. 

The  marriage  of  Louis  St.  Ange  and  Marianne 
Love  Leslie  took  place  at  a  nuptial  Mass  in  the 
new  St.  Mary's  church,  on  Fourth  street  above 
Spruce,  then  recently  builded  by  the  Rev.  Robert 
Harding. 

The  French  ambassador  and  his  suite  were 
present  at  the  ceremony ;  but  none  of  those 
courtly  grandees  were  prouder  oi  happier,  on  the 
occasion,  than  the  bride's  own  dear  honest  rela- 
tives, all  in  their  best,  in  the  front  pews. 

There  were  Lot  and  Prudence  with  their  two 
young  children :  Timothy  and  Faith,  with  their 
three  little  Grindstones. 

Hope,  in  white  muslin  and  wild  roses,  was  the 
slender,  modest  bridesmaid,  and  "Willy,  with  his 
white  satin  favor  in  his  buttonhole,  the  gentle- 
manly groomsman. 


mm 


letters  from 
mirrors,  the 
id  now,  when 
rn  to  appreci- 
r,  Eileen  sent 
e. 

uspices,  was  a 
1  that  so  hand- 
"istian  lovers 
d  soon,  there 
doable  hoase 

md  Marianne 

tl  Mass  in  the 

street  above 

B  Rev.  iiobert 

is  suite  were 

one  of  those 

appier,  on  the 

r  honest  rela- 

)ew8. 

ith  their  two 

'h,  with  their 

OSes,  was  the 
lly,  with  his 
),  the  gentle- 


IN   THE  DOUBLE  HOUSE. 


245 


Tall,  dark,  and  distinguished  was  the  young 
Frenchman,  Louis  St.  Ange,  and  beside  him,  the 
bride  looked  fair  and  lovely  as  an  angel  in  her 
rich  dress  of  ivory-tinted  satin  and  her  trailing 
veil  of  rare  old  lace — Madame's  own  wedding- 
dress  and  veil ; — and  when  Love  and  Louis  jour- 
neyed home  to  Montreal,  after  the  merry  mar- 
riage-breakfast at  the  farm — Willy,  their  brother, 
went  with  them.  Not  to  abide  with  them,  how- 
ever, in  the  stately  St.  Ange  mansion,  where 
Love  was  to  rule,  thenceforth,  as  the  second 
Madame  St.  Ange — reigning  as  a  mistress  where 
she  had  begged  shelter  as  a  child — but  to  enter 
the  college  directed  by  Father  Eugene  O'Con- 
nell,  and  there,  at  Timothy's  expense,  to  begin 
his  studies  for  the  priesthood. 

All  the  golden  threads  .f  our  story  being  thus 
gathered  up — all  the  tangled  ends  smoothed  out, 
and  the  holy  dead  sleeping  in  their  consecrated 
graves — we  seem  to  see  the  Angel  of  God's  Will, 
''n  the  simple  farmhouse  at  Philadelphia,  as  in 
the  rich  mansion,  and  hallowed  Seminary  in 
Montreal,  waving  his  shining  wings  over  our 
dear  Swan  Islanders,  and  shedding  his  priceless 
benedictions  upon  tb-)  lives  and  destinies  of  those 
friends,  high  or  lowly,  old  or  young,  whom  we 
have  known  in  this  eventful  narrative,  as 
"Lot  Leslie's  Foll.6." 


'■^TT' 


ii 


>.4 


i 


An  Afterword  with  the  Reader. 

If  the  woof  of  this  little  tale  be  partly  of  fic- 
tion— its  warp  is  mainly  of  fact. 

Improbable  as  may  seem  its  plot — unreal  or 
exaggerated  its  personnel,  the  story  of  Lot 
Leslie's  Folks  is  based  upon  records  of  unde- 
niable authenticity. 

It  is  certain,  that  a  white  family,  closely  re- 
sembling the  Leslies  in  all  material  points,  was 
captured  by  the  Indians  on  an  island,  o£F  the 
coast  of  Maine,  in  the  summer  of  1755. 

The  father  and  mother  were  sold  to  Canadians 
— the  first,  to  a  baker ;  whilst  the  youngest  girl, 
a  baby,  was  purchased  from  the  Indians,  and 
adopted  by  a  Madame  St.  Auge,  wife  of  a  rich 
merchant  of  Montreal,  whose  only  daughter  had 
then  recently  died. 

Little  Love  Leslie  (or  Eleanor  St.  Auge,  as  she 
was  christened  in  the  Catholic  church  in  Mon- 
treal), is  really  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Her  brother  Joseph,  a  captive  in  the  St.  Frangois 
tribe,  was  also  adopted,  later  on,  by  the  St.  Auges. 

Love  was  stolen  from  her  adopted  parents  (as 
we  have  narrated)  by  an  agent  i'rom  New  Eng- 
land— was  recaptured  by  the  Indians,  and  taken 
by  them  to  the  St.  Frangois  Mission.  Eventually, 
she  was  returned,  for  a  ransom,  to  Madame  St. 

246 


mz: 


Reader, 
be  partly  of  flc- 

plot — unreal  or 
•  story  of  Lot 
records  of  unde- 

raily,  closely  re- 
trial points,  was 
island,  off  the 
f  1765. 

old  to  Canadians 
le  youngest  girl, 
he  Indians,  and 
e,  wife  of  a  rich 
ily  daughter  had 

St.  Auge,  as  she 
church  in  Mon- 
lesh  and  blood, 
the  St.  Franpois 
)y  the  St.  Auges. 
pted  parents  (as 
Irom  New  Eng- 
lians,  and  taken 
n.  Eventually, 
to  Madame  St. 


AN   AFTERWORD. 


247 


Auge,  who  had  her  carefully  educated  in  the  con- 
vents of  the  Ursuiines,  both  in  Montreal  and 
Quebec.  While  we  admit  that  some  small  liber- 
ties have  been  taken  in  our  story  with  the  unities 
of  time,  place,  and  person,  we  respectfully  chal- 
lenge the  critic  to  prove  that  certain  curious  ar  I 
thrilling  experiences  of  the  Leslies  and  their 
servants,  therein  set  forth,  have  not  their  paral- 
lels in  genuine  colonial  narratives  of  Captivi- 
ties among  the  savages  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury— ^which,  by  the  way,  in  vivid  coloring  and 
dramatic  incident,  usually  read  more  like  ro- 
mance, than  sober  reality. 

The  names  of  Lot  Ledie'a  Folk«  may  not  be 
actually  recorded  in  the  Diary  (or  Livre  de 
Compte)  of  P6re  Pierre  Potior  8.  J. — still  extant, 
as  Mr.  Richard  Elliott  tells  us,'  in  the  archives  of 
St.  Mary's  College,  Montreal. 

Nevertheless,  in  their  simple  faith  and  purity 
of  life,  they  are  worthy  to  live,  with  others  of 
their  kind,  in  iV  e  fairest  pages  of  our  Church- 
history  in  pre-B  jvolutionary  days — in  the  annals 
of  those  earh  religious  Missions,  of  whose 
blessed  precinr  £s,  it  may  be  truly  said : 

"  Yon  wver  tread  upon  them,  but  you  set 
You:  fieet  upon  some  ancient  history." 

— THK  AtJTHOR. 

>  Last  of  tkt  Hu  -m  Minion,  m  Ambr.  Cath.  Quarterly  Rk- 
vnw,  to  which  the  writer  is  much  'ndebted. 


[ 


m 


mmm 


